


your hand in mine

by miyawakii



Series: play-pretend and play-truth [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Theatre, Canon Compliant, Comedy, Fluff, Geographical Inaccuracies, Grossly self-indulgent, Historical Inaccuracy, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Physics mentioned, Slow Burn, Theatre Arts Inaccuracies... probably, as slow as a short fic could be i think..., calculus mentioned, if you somehow learn implicit differentiation from here... i will change my major, teasing and banter is my favorite thing in the universe, thank you wikipedia and britannica for sponsoring this fanfic <3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:13:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 34,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24748144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miyawakii/pseuds/miyawakii
Summary: 「Suga’s fingers trailed along his; feather-light, tentative — separated by an infinity of mere millimetres, approaching, yet never arriving. There laid a threadbare barrier they dare not cross: a gap between imagining and yearning. A quiet sense of divinity, sealed from the judgement of light — something deserving to be felt and not seen, to meet and to flee, unrecorded, unbelieved — belong only to a single moment in a human’s lifetime that dare not be desecrated by rendering it concrete.」
Relationships: Oikawa Tooru/Sugawara Koushi
Series: play-pretend and play-truth [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1791928
Comments: 42
Kudos: 77





	1. from your fingertips

**Author's Note:**

> hello i am back and gayer than before.

“Number 43, Oikawa Tooru-san, please.”

He should have known. 

———

He should have known.

He should have known that something was wrong the moment Iwa-chan so casually entered his classroom and slid gracefully into the unoccupied seat right in front of him. He should have known, he definitely should have — the instinct he built about Iwa-chan should have alerted his caution — when Iwa-chan, the ever straightforward, crude, and crass Iwa-chan, began his sentence hesitantly thus—

“So....”

“Yes, Iwa-chan?” He answered, like an idiot, still munching on the soft, warm, and delicious milk bread that rests in his left hand. 

(Perhaps it was the heavenly delight of the milk bread that blinded and deafened him, or maybe it was because he was occupied with deleting all of Ruka-chan’s pictures from his phone. Could be whichever. More likely, the milk bread. 

Whatever, the point is, he was distracted.)

“So... the season is over.”

“Yes, Iwa-chan. Yes, it is.”

“And we have... well, nothing else to prepare for.”

“Perhaps some of you don’t, but I do. If I hope to make it out of high school volleyball.”

“Yes, yes, yes. All that. But the coach said....” Iwa-chan purposefully drew out his syllables, in a way that apprised too much trepidation to be cute. But, alas, the Great Oikawa Tooru was occupied _(by milk bread)_. “Come on, help me out here, you know what I am about to say!”

“Yes, yes, yes, yes. _‘The coach said’_. He said one thing, he said a million things, Iwa-chan, which one is it?”

“Well, the one where he said that life is... you know, wild, and the world is big, and the chances and the opportunities are endless, and that as youthful spirits...”

“... we should try things out before we grew too old and too grumpy to do so, like his grandfather." Oikawa sighed, "Yes, sure, that one.” 

“And so... I think you should try out something new! Something fun, you know, that could get you out of this volleyball.... and Ruka-chan funk that you are feeling right now.” Iwaizumi ended his sentence, unbeknownst to his so-called best friend, by glancing fretfully at the viciously-attacked phone on Oikawa’s hand. That was fair, he guessed, considering how the girl had broken the news to him. Poor child.

“And pray tell, what is that?”

“Well, someone from another club asked us, and just, especially us, a small little favor, and would very appreciate it if we would agree...”

“Sure, sure, get to the point, Iwa-chan.”

“The theatre club wants you to audition for their upcoming production. They said they have to find anyone with an ounce of potential, and they are... very keen on having you trying it out.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

Iwaizumi knew this, and Oikawa knew this — albeit belatedly, with many fruitless regrets — that Oikawa is so absorbed with “milk bread” to process any of the information given to him that fateful day.

But, giving his words meant giving his words, especially if his best friend is Iwaizumi Hajime, who is never too abashed to wrangle him into doing so.

Alas, he should have known. But is there any sight more lucid and painful than hindsight?

———

“Right, Oikawa-san, welcome. Please attempt the dialogue from page nine, line thirty-two to forty-three. Let us know when you are ready.”

———

“Thank you. Now, we understand if you haven’t reached that part of the script yet, so we will give you fifteen minutes to prepare. After that, please attempt the monologue from page twenty-one...”

———

“Thank you, to everyone who auditioned today! We are extremely grateful for your interest in our biggest project of the school year and hope that your support will remain...

... At any rate, the judging committee will reach out to you in two more weeks, at the latest, before finalizing the casts for this production...”

———

Oikawa definitely tuned out the rest of the speech. 

It just... happened; with reasons, of course. No volleyball player is used to that length of theatre kids’ flowery speeches, and he doubted that anyone could listen to the student director pretending like he was heading the Gekidan Shiki. Honestly, someone should pay him for giving that much effort into an oration — it wasn’t even that informative.

He took the time, instead, to admire the impressive audition space — right at Seijou’s main auditorium. He never knew much about the arts program, spending all his time on the courts as he was, but it seemed fairly ostentatious that a single program owned such an expensive space. Not that he knew how big a usual theatre should be, but surely this many rows of dust-covered maroon seats, plush and outrageously comfortable (they really expect the audience not to fall asleep in these?) with such a grand stage would cost way more than two volleyball courts combined, right?

He was more convinced as such the longer he observed the space — at the voluminous lightings equipment that he doesn’t know the name of, the strategically spaced speakers that dotted the room, all veiled themselves in muted black, and the curious amount of curtains behind the theatre club’s president, coyly showing the extensive space that he sure no Shakespeare productions would ever require — definitely worth more than two volleyball courts combined.

Then, Oikawa wondered why they asked him, notoriously known for a dashing good look and a mind with only volleyball to speak of, to join this theatrical group of performers. They have nothing in common: theatre and volleyball, performance and sport, a grand wooden stage that probably cannot stand twelve people leap and prance upon, courts where the spectators stood like gods above and the performer weighted down their gazes...

Both seemed blinding, though. Blindingly dark and blindingly bright.

Briefly, Oikawa wished his eyes could burn under the gleam of the court just once more, with the ball and the sweat weighing him down and love letting him soar.

———

“So, how did it go?”

“Absolutely weird and boring. I read out two pages from a book, and then they write down their judgemental opinion of me once I leave the room.”

He had agreed to meet Iwa-chan at the coffee shop down the blocks after the audition, if not for consolation just in case the audition turned out to be the biggest mistake of his short, youthful life, then for help with the calculus homework. Oikawa sighed, then flopped down the seat opposite from his best friend, who, seconds prior to his arrival, was shoving his brain under a mountain of equations. His traitorous thought, fleetingly, grew annoyed at the cushion for not being as soft as the one in the auditorium. But the junk in front of Iwa-chan's face was more interesting, and a quick glance informed him that it was— ew, calculus. Just for being a good friend by distracting the precious Iwa-chan from the agony that is mathematics, Oikawa prized himself with a sip of Iwa-chan’s chocolate shake.

Also, he needs some consolation and helps with calculus, right now.

“Get your own!” Iwa-chan yelled half-heartedly, “How did you do, though?” 

“Nervous. Incredibly nervous. I didn’t want to be that nervous, mind you, considering that I didn’t want to do theatre that much anyway....” He shivered, then shrugged off his school bag, “But I think I did... fine. The girl who was paired up with me was super scary, but she definitely knew more about what she was doing than I do about mine.”

He quickly ordered his usual drink — the smile and an equally bright attitude accompanied, as usual — before slumping down on the table. That theatre stuff had no right to be as tiring as they were. He considered just laying there and sulk, but curiosity thrummed at his throat.

“So, why did they ask for me, anyway?” 

“Oh, you know...” Iwa-chan casually said, without looking up from his work, “Hirose from class 6, you must have seen him around, right? He is their usual male lead, but then decided not to audition this time, so they have to pull in as many people with ‘potential’ as possible.”

“Why not you, or Makki and Mattsun? Aren’t they like... “

“... The personification of theatre? Well, yeah, if they are planning on doing comedy.” 

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa giggled, “that... that is so mean of you...”

Behind his textbook, Iwa-chan’s body shook with the effort of containing his own ridicule, “Or if they still want to do a western romance, both of them have to be the leads.”

“Oh my god, Iwa-chan! Makki in a dress! With a blonde wig!”

They broke into laughter, somewhat conscious of the guests around them but also unable to contain the hilarity. The rest of the shop must have considered them madmen, but was it worth the charm of blonde-Makki in a dress? Of course.

Their ruckus quieted when the waitress delivered Oikawa’s favorite mashed-strawberry milk. Oikawa pulled out his calculus homework, running out of excuses for not doing so. He might know how to trace the curve of a volleyball moments after leaving the spiker’s hand, but calculate the slope of that curve? No, thanks. Don’t have time to do that in the middle of the game.

Math homework doesn’t mean silent time, however, “So, why did Hirose quit this time? Isn’t he aiming to attend performance school or whatever theatre kids do?”

“I think he wanted to compete in a different category.”

“... What?”

“Yeah, didn’t you read the brochure I gave you? The play that you just auditioned for? It’s for some kind of league competition. Kind of like a volleyball tournament, really.”

“WHAT?”

“You didn’t read the brochure, didn’t you.” Iwa-chan sighed, still not looking up.

Oikawa paused, for several moments, just to close his eyes lest they dive out of his eye sockets. He took a deep, calming breath... and sat down again, hands clasped in front of his face. One calming breath, and another… Then, he opened his eyes, braving against the cruel and taunting world ahead.

“Iwa-chan, you encourage— told me, to audition... my first audition, ever, in my entire life, and it’s for a tournament? A competition? Against a fleet of kids who have spent their entire life eating up applauses from that... that high stage?”

“Hey, who knows, you could be a natural! You did live through the last three weeks of your relationship with Ruka-chan!”

“Don’t mention Yawamura—“

“Oh, back to the surname already, huh—“

“— Just don’t. And why would they even want me to audition, then, if that’s the case? Won’t it be a waste of time?”

“Well, they asked me to recommend someone, so here you are, so I did! And they are okay with it! Why are you so indignant, anyway, since you didn’t seem to care at all when I asked you?”

“Because I was busy! Deleting Ru— Yawamura’s existence from my life! And why would they— why would ever let me do something you knew I am going to fail at!?” He knew he was being unreasonable; both of them were blowing this out of proportion, with his penchant for the casual theatrics and Iwa-chan’s hot head, but well, what was done was done.

Iwa-chan’s temper slumped as quickly as it flared up. His best friend slumped down against the backrest, and sighed, “I don’t intend for you to fail, Shittykawa, I just want you to live without volleyball or failed relationships for once in your high school life!”

“That’s not true!” Oikawa bluffed, like a liar that he is.

“That is so! You have been in a weird mood since Spring High ended, and didn’t even break up with Yawamura before she forced your hand!”

Oikawa groaned and slammed his face down to his forgotten calculus homework. Of course, he had been in “a mood”, Iwa-chan of all people should have understood why! Of course, that’s why he didn’t have the heart to break up with Ruka... like he would have done had they not been defeated in the semi-finals.

_(He couldn’t stomach the thought of losing yet another “match”, be it relationships or volleyballs. He couldn’t stomach anything, at that moment.)_

Iwa-chan did know, however, like he always was, and like Oikawa always surmised that he ought to. Maybe— no, definitely— that was why he intervened. In his own gruff, pushing-you-out-of-your-comfort-zone-is-for-your-sake way. 

“Alright, then.” Oikawa sniffed, at the cruel, cruel world ahead. Alas, what was done was done.

“It’s just for fun, you know, trying something new. Even if you didn’t get the lead role, one of the minor ones wouldn’t be so bad, would they?” Iwa-chan started, soothingly, before turning back to his work, “It’s not like it’s all or nothing.”

“Sure, it sure is.” Oikawa pouted, just as a matter of principle. “Hey, number 13 on page 72, how do you do it?”

“Which one?” Iwa-chan glanced over, “That, you have to use implicit differentiation first...“

———

Oikawa forgot all about the theatre club in the three days before they announced the final cast, in favor of volleyball, more volleyball, and trying not to fail his calculus quiz. He swore he tried to pay attention, but nothing made sense— maybe math doesn’t suppose to make sense, and you just have to somehow memorize how to perform the witchcraft of mathematics! _Why the hell do curves need to have slopes?_

It all came to an end, the moment Makki and Mattsun’s rambunctious footsteps rang outside of his classroom, warningly of their playfully-sinister presence.

Alas, he should have known.

“Oi, oi, Oikawa!!” Makki hollered from the window that opened to his classroom. Oikawa sighed, put down his half-eaten onigiri, and staunchly refused to turn around and make eye-contacts.

“Oikawa! Get your ass out here, quick!” Mattsun snickered, uncaring of his friend’s profanity, and willingly let Makki conduct the performance. That snicker, however, will be the downfall of Oikawa’s sanity. “Come on, theatre boy! Quick, before the show begins!”

Their dismayed target trekked across the classroom like an exiled man, while, in fact, he is very much loved and demanded by his fellow teammates — and now hype-men, Mattsun graciously added. Buzzed up by the number of jokes that stifled his lungs — can’t spoil the surprise yet — Makki pulled Oikawa’s arm and practically led him away running, like an overexcited puppy pulling his first sledge. Mattsun was not far behind, either, and his taunting grin was arguably worse than whatever jokes Makki had in store.

“And.... here we go!" Makki abruptly stopped, crashing Oikawa's shoulder with his own, "Congratulations, theatre boy, ya got the lead right in ya bag!” 

Despite the cheerful proclamation, Oikawa intently stared at the colorful poster in front of him, the header gracefully denoted its content as the official casting for the next play — _An original production by the Seijou’s Theatre Club, a collaboration with the Western Literature Club..._

And here he was.

_Shimazaki Haruna as Mademoiselle de Villette_

_Oikawa Tooru as Alexander Dusseau_

_...._

_Thank you for all of those who auditioned. Congratulations to the cast, and we wish for a successful production with you! For more information, please contact...._

————

The first meeting was three days after the casting announcement, and the table reading four days after that.

It felt a little surreal, ended up as the male lead, especially considering how unreasonably nervous he was at the audition, adding to the fact that this is his first role, like, ever ever. A total zero on his “previous experience” mark. And somehow, here he was, the male lead of a supposedly “very important” competitive production of the school.

Somehow, this worked out, against his eternity of bad luck. 

He thought about it once, he had thought about it a million times. But the point stood; and so did the inferiority complex pulsed violently against his heart.

_He can’t screw this up._

———

The first meeting was not that more interesting than the ending speech at the audition.

He was genuinely trying to pay attention this time, if not because of the responsibility of a male lead, then as the newbie of the scene. He knew virtually nothing about theatre, if one doesn’t count the commoner’s perceptions that were, somehow, always and completely missed the mark. And he, the great and charming Oikawa Tooru, did not wish to injure his image. It did help that the speaker this time is someone... more comprehensible and concise. The vice-president — Yokoyama Yuri-san from Iwa-chan’s class — if he remembered correctly. 

“Welcome, everyone. If you do not already know, I’m Yokoyama Yuri and the Vice-President of Seijou’s Theatre Club. First off, as usual, thank you for coming and for committing to the production.

“This is perhaps obsolete, but I would like to stress the importance of this project.” Oh, not obsolete for him, at all. “Well, this play will be our biggest production for the year. Not only would it be our last stage for the school year, but this year, it will also be the keynote performance of the Seijou Summer Festival in late July, as well as our entry for the National High School Theatre Competition.

“We decided that this is finally the year that we lifted the bar.” Yokoyama paused, and her demeanor, if even possible, turned even more serious and imposing, “Our goal this year is a total sweepstake. The original screenplay, inter-collegiate, western, _and more_.”

A gasp resonated around the room, before the mere weight of the words pressurized into silence. Glancing around, a little more than confused, Oikawa eyed the intensity that burdened, yet sparkled, in every cast members’ eyes — from his fellow leads to the minor characters and the crewmen. Almost half, he never remembered to ever seeing them on campus, and the room is definitely too crowded to host just a group of kids playing theatre, but perhaps he misjudged how dedicated the school, and these kids, are to this competition. Even the name of it sounded imposingly serious.

“Thus, per both club members' approval, Seijou and Karasuno will collaborate for our entry. I hope that everything will go smoothly.”

_Karasuno, again, huh._

(But as comrades this time.)

“Alright.” Yokoyama exhaled the remainder of the stiffness that drowned the auditorium, loudly clapping her hand to refocus, “Now that we got the introduction out of the way, the packets that were handed out at the beginning contain everything that you need to know about this production. Hopefully, you all have some kind of writing utilities on you.” He did, thank heaven, _(thanks, Iwa-chan)_ , “First off, let’s get to the scheduling...”

He opened the thick envelope that was given at the doorstep, his name carefully etched on the cover, before pulling out a sea of paperwork that almost made his eyes water. Thankfully, the packets and Yokoyama seemed to be in accordance with the chronology of the meeting. Oikawa wondered how many trees the club had massacred, between the sheer number of actors and crew members, multiplied by the several productions they pushed out each school year. Now, maybe, just maybe, the volleyball club under his and the previous reigns had been extremely unorganized — relied solely on the sheets of paper pinned haphazardly on the club room’s bulletin board and the coach’s hollers about match dates in their ears during drills — but at least they didn’t have this many sheets of paper to keep track of.

The booming voice from the stage quickly brought him back from reality, explaining on what dates, what group of people are expected, and where. He realized then, that the schedule has been at least a little bit personalized, separating the crews’ from the casts. What an impressive level of paper-working. 

There was the table reading that was coming on soon, and a wide gap between that and the first rehearsal. Then, there were more scattered meetings, twice every week, until the next big event — bolded and colored red — the “technical rehearsal” or whatever that meant. In-between those meetings, colored in a muted blue, were his various costume-making and make-up appointments. He was, strangely, excited about that. Almost excited enough to suffocate the trepidation that these mysterious rehearsals brought out. The first costume appointment would be only two days after the table read.

(First off, Oikawa didn’t even know that they have color printers at school.

Secondly, _what the hell_ are all those terms?) 

What he expected, but didn’t truly understand until now, was the structure of theatrics rehearsals. Of course, it would take forever if no one learns their lines before rehearsal, but he had not truly comprehended how individualistic was this... collaborative art, until now. There was as much individual work as there was about coopetition and chemistry: any missteps and miscommunication can evolve into a disaster, probably, but one also was required to carry out their own practice. On the second thought, maybe this was similar to volleyball, after all.

———

The casts are dismissed before the technical crews, and their “homework” had been getting to know each other. When everyone, including the scary girl that Oikawa had paired up with, left the room, so did he.

They all concentrated outside of the auditorium’s door and chatted noisily; whispers and peals of laughter commingled between cohorts. He always assumed that the cast, for one production to another, had always been the same people, in the same club — that “getting to know each other” was meant for the minor characters and him, the newbies of the team — but now he wasn’t so sure. Though, perhaps they were all chatting as old friends.

“Oikawa-kun, right?” 

“Ah! Yes, it’s me!” He jumped at the lilting voice that suddenly conjured beside him, before looking down to the girl that stood exactly where the voice came from.

“Sorry if I startled you, it just seemed like you were a bit… well, loss.” The girl smiled good-naturedly, eyes squinted with the force of it, paying no heed to his awkwardness. She seemed nice. “I’m Yamamoto Aya, by the way. I play Madame de Blois.”

“Ah, well… It seems like you already know me, don’t you?” He scratched his head, attempting to make himself less graceless and more… casually suave.

“Right, Monsieur Dusseau.” Yamamoto grinned, in a foreign accent he could only guess as perfectly poised French, “It’s not like you are the most popular guy at Seijou for nothing! And switching gears to the theatre, honestly, what is there to not notice!”

“Well, you know, I just want to try out something new…”

“That’s good to know! And landed at the lead role, too. That’s impressive!” She twirled a little in excitement, her brown ponytail whirled along like a mini-version of herself.

“Thank you… honestly, I have no clue how I did it. I don’t even know half of the things that are written on the schedule, and I seriously don’t want to mess this up for you guys.”

“Don’t worry about it!” Yamamoto laughed, “Haruna-chan and I sure would love to help! Right, Haruna?”

Yamamoto waved her friend over, somewhere amongst the sea of people. Oikawa glanced toward her hand and found another girl, jet black hair streamed down her shoulder and somewhat taller than Yamamoto was, sauntered toward him.

Lo and behold. That was the same girl that he had auditioned with.

_The female lead._

“I’m sure you guys know each other already, right?” Yamamoto asked, hazel eyes shone brightly.

Shimazaki Haruna, on the other hand, seemed more aloof and less excited to be here, and he was not sure how much of it was her usual demeanor or vexation. She seemed immaculately professional at the audition, and her unerring stance at the auditorium just now intimidated him greatly, solely based on the sheer confidence that she showed, as if the space had always belonged to her.

He had always believed that the theatre kid’s female lead stereotype — cold, professional, unnerving, and frigid off-stage — was incorrect, and now, more than ever, he sincerely hoped so.

“Shimazaki Haruna, nice to meet you.” 

“Right... Oikawa Tooru, nice to meet you.”

That… was awkward.

“Perhaps you guys would be more comfortable talking after the first table reading!” Yamamoto beamed on, completely uncaring of the unease that ensued, “Now, let’s go meet everyone else!”

———

The table read came soon, perhaps too soon, after. Both Yokoyama and Yamamoto — Yuri and Aya, now — had assured him that he did not need to do anything at the first reading, besides showing up with the script and a pencil or two. That was somewhat assuring, at least.

The more reassuring part was not having the first line of the play. His character would be introduced on page six, line seventy-four, and the first four pages were reserved for Mademoiselle de Villette and her afternoon tea with Madame du Blois. The most reassuring, then, was knowing that they do not need to act, but merely read — knowing that without prior practices, all actors were made equal and that Oikawa would not be making a fool out of himself. The flat, aloof voice of Shimazaki was paradoxically comforting.

“Why, of course, Madame du Blois… There is no reason I ought to resent the Duke’s betrothment. That would even take me out of this wretched countryside.” 

“Surely, someone of your kind would not much like to be confined to someone else’s wishes, Louise. What would you even do, once France is but behind your horizon?” 

“Anything, my dear Amelie. Any new scenery would provoke more duties and excitement than idle Ardennes.”

Well, that was until they reached the supposedly romantic lines.

“Ah, Monsieur Dusseau.” His character’s name sounded glacial in Shimazaki’s timbre, but that was most likely just her normal tone, at this point, “Summer, as it was. Here granted to us its dear labor.”

“Budded from the gentle spring, seeded by the sweetness of heat.”

_A glance was shared. Mlle. de Villette furtively smirked at M. Dusseau._

Shimazaki, of course, did none of those. He was thankful for that. 

“The season shall bloom, Monsieur, with its sultry aroma and transforming the land into something… ah, more lively.”

At the end of the day, they did not talk as much as Aya would have loved to. But Oikawa was more than fine with that.

———

Compared to all the strangeness of theatre, the strangeness of the fitting sessions would perhaps be the one that Oikawa welcomed the most.

He stepped into the fitting room and found someone already presided there, tension weighed their shoulders in concentration, despite their casual posture — back lithely rested against the folding chair and both legs off the floor; one foot rested upon the chair, the other leg perched on top of it. What a bizarre pose to be sitting at — that couldn’t be comfortable at all — but given what he knew about theatre kids’ penchant for idiosyncrasies and the person’s engrossment in their works, Oikawa decided to let them be. 

He knocked on the door frame, however, keeping up his charming manner. The person flinched — almost dropped their pencil, and the movement flaunted the scribbled sketches that they were working on — before glancing backward and widened their eyes at Oikawa. For the sake of politeness and the half-maybe-an-hour of them working together, Oikawa tried not to laugh.

The person in question — the costume designer, his memory supplied — went red, quite adorably (his mind supplied, though this time, not a helpful input). From this angle, Oikawa can deduct that this is in fact, a person too cute _(shut up, brain)_ for Oikawa’s good.

_“It’s gonna help you put your mind off things”._ Really, now. Iwa-chan’s suggestions began to hold a completely different meaning. 

Suppressing his desire to trail his hand through that silky, tousled head of silver hair for later _(What the fuck, brain, shut up)_ , he raised his hand in greeting and remembered to slap on his signature smile in the last minute. The other person seemed to jostle out of his own reverie at that moment, and ushered Oikawa into the room and break out of his theatre-kid’s-comfortable position.

“Hey, you must be Oikawa-san, right? The male lead?”

“Yep, that’s me!” He beamed, purposefully made his steps light and casual, “And you are...?”

“Sugawara Koushi,” the other person — the costume designer — smiled, the gentle lilt in his voice lit up the room, “So, for today, I just need to take some measurement for the actual costume,” Sugawara fumbled around with the bag folded underneath his chair, pulling out a neat roll of tape measure, “well, depends on whether Seijou can find the gloves and boots and all that, we might need another tailoring session, but for now, the actual suit is the priority.”

“You guys... can make boots?”

“Nah,” Sugawara licked his lips, twisting the soft tape between his fingers, “but we can find one and customize it. If Seijou doesn’t already have one in your size, that’s it.”

“Hm,” Oikawa had several questions but ignored them in favor of taking in the space. They have borrowed a music practice room for this — he eyed a group of music stands neatly stacked in the farthest corner from the door, a sheet of crumbled notes peeked out in the middle. He had imagined the costume design portion as something chaotic and “artistically disheveled”, as television would love to portray, but the space was sparse and no clutter existed beside the two folding chairs, a stuffed messenger bag, the pencils and strewn sketches on the floor. Perhaps it’s the borrowed room, he reasoned, but the difference between imagination and reality was still staggering. Sugawara studied his sketchbook once more, before gesturing for Oikawa to stand in front of him.

“Take off your jacket, please.” Sugawara waved in his general direction before rummaging his bag once more, “and change to a sport short or something,” he glanced back, “wait, you already did, huh.”

“What, you think the male lead is a newbie?”

“Well, given that you are well-known for volleyball and not theatre, yes.”

“Cheeky.” Oikawa huffed, and waves of laughter rang out of Sugawara like bells sailing the wind. “Sugawara-san, maybe you should audition for the next production; heard they’re planning to do a comedy piece.”

“Just Suga is okay,” Suga’s voice tumbled in between his giggle, “and yes, you really are a newbie, huh. Bet that you didn’t even go to the orientation, or else you’d know that I’m not from Seijou.”

“Wha... Hey! I totally knew what was going on at the orientation! Of course, I was,... what are you going on about—“

“Alright, then I guess Monsieur Dusseau here is too important to notice the tech people, hm?” He smirked, and Oikawa sputtered indignantly, before being cut off by the other’s cackle, “Just kidding, of course, you need to pay attention to what Yokoyama-san said more than snooping at others!”

“Well, Suga-san, aren't you hilarious. Ha, ha, ha.”

“Cheeky.” Suga raised his brows playfully, “heard that the next production is a comedy, too.

“Now, lift your arms up, shoulders flat, please.”

As banterful as Suga seemed to be, once immersed in work, he is as meticulous and methodical as any theatre professionals… well, kids, that Oikawa had met. Willowy fingers blithely pressed the tape along Oikawa’s arms, his thumb gently pressing around to find the joint between Oikawa’s arm length and the shoulder. Under the layer of fabric, he could not feel the calluses that freckled the other’s fingertips as clearly as from the pressure upon his wrist. Suga did not waste a single movement; he swiftly measured, shifting the tape from joints to perceived joints, carefully counting off the minuscule marks that lined the tape, then quickly scratched a number onto his notes, clipped onto the music stand beside him, a setup Oikawa had not noticed until then. 

Strangely, Oikawa felt that his touches lingered forever. Like a phantom that abandons and immediately reaches back, a tango of existence and none, leaving all of his touches woven into a ceaseless dance. The silence between them began to stifle his lungs, and the overwhelming sensuality of Suga's touch invaded that vacuum of space. He blamed the daring silence; one that let every callused touch sending tingles to his bones.

“Ticklish, Monsieur Dusseau?”

“Not if we talk. That might distract me.” 

“Alright,” Suga chuckled, “So, the first time being fitted?”

“Yeah, the first one for a long time.” He admitted. Suga signaled for him to turn around, “Mom used to take me to a tailor once every while, but we haven’t done so for quite sometimes.”

“Is that so?”

“Yep. More because of my schedule than anything, so.”

“Volleyball?”

“Ya got it. How did you know, anyway?”

Suga took a breath that felt like a ghost of a giggle, “Oh, you know. The Seijou folks are pretty friendly. They talked.”

“Gossip, you mean.” He pouted, even though Suga won’t be able to see it.

“Not all bad talk, really, most are just curious. And some marveled at how you got the lead at first try. We shut down any chance of mudslinging, anyway.”

“Hah, mudslinging. Hasn’t heard that word in a long time.” Oikawa’s snickers must have wavered Suga’s work, but he received no complaints, “But thanks. For doing it for me.”

“No problem. We will all be working together anyway, so it’s good that all gears run smoothly." Suga said, “Anyway, most talks are good ones, though. The girls love you, honestly. All gushing about your talents and stuff.”

“Well, of course…”

“Seems like that’s the usual for the pretty boy Monsieur Dusseau, hm?” Suga tapped Oikawa’s shoulder to let him know to turn back, and he saw a smile blessed onto the boy’s lips. It’s soft, adoring, and Oikawa wondered if his heart was responding to him at all.

Okay, no. Immediate retreat. 

“Something like that, Suga-chan.” No, no, _no_! Not teasing back! Not like that! “A shame someone as lovely as you is not in the hearts of the masses, hm?”

“Well, if we talked about that,” Suga chuckled, then gently coaxed Oikawa down to the chair nearby, “Aren’t it befitting? You shine in the spotlight, and I the shadow beneath?”

“So poetic now, aren’t we?”

“And you served the theatrics well.”

Laughter rang and bounced between the proofed barrier of the practice room; when he left later that day, Suga’s numbers and the promise to update him on the state of the suit loitered in his message history, Oikawa found Suga’s pearls of laughter still echoing in his head, like bronze bells gliding through a summer field.

———

_The Garden of Farewell_

_The original production of Aoba Johsai High School and Karasuno High School_

_Director: Sashihara Riko_

_Screenplay: Tashima Miru, Miyawaki Maki_

_The story surrounds Mlle. Louise de Villette, the desirous daughter of a French noble, who will soon depart her home country for distant Belgium, for an engagement with the Duke of Cröy. She had wanted nothing more than to leave her insipid and idle hometown, but a last-minute encounter between her and the clever charm of Alexander Dusseau, the new guard employed at the estate, might waver her resolution..._

———

The first rehearsal ran smoothly enough.

The trepidation in his heart evaporated, and it beat comfortably in his chest when he saw that, against his unreasonable fear, that he was fairly early. Usually, he would be at volleyball practice at this hour, though barely warmed up to yell instructions at the underclassmen. The coach understood the obligation — more of the work of the other third years than of his — though he suspected that even the old man was sick of seeing him in the courts days after days. Everyone else seemed understanding enough.

_(He didn’t allow himself to wonder how much of it was pity.)_

Yuri was sitting cross-legged on the stage floor and enthusiastically waved him over when she saw his face peeked behind the creaks of the door. Shimazaki and Aya were already there, too, and seemed relaxing enough, both of their bellies resting on the wooden floor. Aya’s wave rivaled Yuri’s enthusiasm; Shimazaki only gave him a polite nod. 

He waved and smiled at all of them, though, before quickly jogging to the stage, leaping through the stairs to replace the exercises that he would miss from today's volleyball practice.

“Volleyball player, always leaping and bouncing everywhere like little chicks.” Yuri teased.

They chatted about everything and nothing at all; mostly, he laughed, Aya jokes, Yuri chimed in, and Shimazaki huffed out breaths that were meant to be laughter, from then until the space filled up with chatty teenagers. They did something dubbed “blocking” that day — a term that sounded volleyball-related, and then didn’t — the director, Sashihara, asked them to recite their lines, section by section, while moving around the stage as scripted. Occasionally, she would pause the act, scrunch her nose, tilt her head high as if that would transform the scene in front of her somehow, then gave out new directions, and the actors in question would quickly scribble down her order in their script. 

It seemed fun, watching others work while waiting for his entering cue. Shimazaki was great, he assumed, from the way everyone cannot help but focused on her every little movement. She moved like a perfectly pompous lady of the nobility — even feet, straight back, a smile with just a hint of calculation and restraint; the uncontrived flicks of fingers that emphasized her station, yet was nowhere seen in the actual script. All those small gestures, confined by the noble indolence and the setting of a tea table, sculpted a vivid painting despite the blank stage. Sashihara seemed like she was having fun, too; from time to time, she even seemed surprised at Shimazaki’s unexpected geniuses. 

On his cue, Oikawa entered the stage. He had studied his line for this scene over and over, and yet the prospect of being scrutinized by the director and fellow actors alone set his heart off like a rambunctious drum. 

“Alexander Dusseau, my lady,” he bowed, thankful that his voice didn't shake; his left arm crossed behind his back and the other hugging the script to his chest, “I am honored to serve the Duke and his estates.”

“Of course, the Duke and his estates.” Shimazaki sighed dramatically, her face moved from half a gesture to another, as if testing out what mask it should wear, “Never a thought for the Duchess and the ladies. And you, dear Amelie, wondered why I would depart this hinterland.”

“I meant no offense, Mademoiselle, the words are merely procedural.” He looked up, eyeing his script before continuing.

“As if it would improve such anything, honored guards.” Shimazaki read from her script, paused, then added a last-minute giggle, “Honored guards, all swords and words, no senses found!”

“Shall it be, that they are all squirrelly,” Aya sing-songed at her script, “Square and stout, but savvy? Not really.”

“May that it be,” Oikawa smirked, lifted his feet a little before straightening his back, “that little squirrel, so shrewd and mellow, steal away your sack, while you’re so lively in talk.”

“Alright!” Sashihara clapped, “Great delivery, ladies and gentlemen! Dusseau, move back, away from Madame du Blois some… twenty more centimeters! Servants at the back, I know you guys are not the focus, but move around a little more! Door guards…”

———

From Suga-chan: how was the rehearsal today?

To Suga-chan: pretty good :D we just did the whole blocking thing. not done yet tho. we have to finish act 3.

From Suga-chan: that’s cool! 

From Suga-chan: we just started on the fabric today.

From Suga-chan: well, mostly asahi did the work, i just observe :P

To Suga-chan: what kind of a costume maker does that make you?? >:D

From Suga-chan: not a costume maker :D

From Suga-chan: i just helped around, thats it

To Suga-chan: so what even is your main job??

From Suga-chan: an all-rounded errand boy :P

From Suga-chan: jk, wont want to ruin the surprise ;D

To Suga-chan: (¬_¬) im onto you~

———

Shimazaki eventually approached him, after the second rehearsal had ended. 

“Oikawa-san, do you have the time?”

“It’s… 7:30 pm?”

“Would you mind staying a little bit longer, for practice? Or would you prefer that we meet tomorrow?”

He had volleyball practices on the weekdays that the theatre club did not meet. The season might be over, but there are personal skills to hone and underclassmen to train, even though he toned it down, as demanded by Iwa-chan, “Today would work better. But if you prefer tomorrow, it would have to start… around this time.”

“Tomorrow it is, then.” Shimazaki nodded, “I will meet you at the volleyball court? The auditorium might be closed.”

Alright, time to adjust his homework schedule, then.

———

“Everything is still going smoothly, though! It seems like the costume department is a little bit understaffed, so I mostly stay there as of now, but once the initial cutting and measuring are done, the Seijou team could come help, and then the workload is halved!”

They called each other that night, talking and doing homework at the same time, and it felt almost as if they were in the same room. Oikawa wondered if the blithe lilt Suga’s voice would just resonate within the four walls over and over like last time, forever lingering in his room. 

“Seems rough, being the chief designer.”

“Well, Okada had her experiences, but Asahi just got roped into this last minute!” Suga laughed; the names of Karasuno theatre members flowed seamlessly together in his head, “He kind of freaked out, actually, but Okada and the club sponsor love his design!

“So, everything is fine with the acting?”

“Well, since it seemed that you guys are waaay more productive than we are,” Oikawa sighed, and scribbled more redundancies onto his History essay, “We just got done with the second rehearsal today, since it is too much of a hassle to make Karasuno’s casts traveled all the way here three times a week. So, not much had happened, except that we got the blocking done,” using technical theatre terms should _not_ be this exciting, but here he was, being converted into a theatre nerd, “and began working on each scene, one by one. Sashihara wants us to be off-book for Scene One by next week.” 

“Is that a lot?”

“Kind of, but I have it easier than Shimazaki or Aya-chan.”

“Ah, Mademoiselle de Villette and Madame du Blois, of course.”

“Seems like you are familiar with the script, aren’t you?”

“Well, we all got the books beforehand, so that we can have a headstart on designing, so yes. You actors are the last one to get the books.”

 _The French Revolution marked a troubling period for the nobility and clergy class, and would forever change the relationship between these two estates and the common Frenchmen. This marked the end of the Three Estates era, which disproportionately benefits the minuscule number that resided in the high-class, while exploiting the majority, some of them lived in perpetual poverty,_ “Then it seems like you guys are busier than us, then.”

“Not quite.” Suga hummed; the scratches of pen on paper on both sides of the line commingled and resonated, like a dance of pleasant disharmony, “Just more time-consuming, I suppose, considering that we have to use the school’s facilities almost the entire time, while you guys can practice whenever. And then there is fitting, and dress rehearsal, and all that. Needs a window for adjustment, too.”

“In case the measurements are incorrect?”

“In case you get bigger, too, but yes.” 

“Hey! I’m a volleyball player—“ Suga cackled at his indignation, and showed no sign of remorse not stopping, “The only bigger I can get is taller!”

“Sure, sure. By the way, how are you getting along with the Mademoiselle de Villette?”

“Shimazaki?” Surely, Suga would have noticed that she was the only cast member whom he has yet mentioned by their first name, “she is… cool, I guess. Professional. We don’t talk much, though.”

“What? You talked more to Madame du Blois when she is already married, and when you are supposed to be romancing her best friend?”

“Suga-chan made the situation way worse than it is!” Oikawa huffed, “There won’t be any real romancing until Act Two, when de Villette, du Blois and the Countess of Flanderre almost fell into the lake! Dusseau is supposed to prioritize the Countess, but he grabbed de Villette instead! You would know that if you read the script, hm?”

“Well, if you consider that the true romantic moment, then even the first scene would count! It’s the build-up that matters!” Suga responded, “The rhyming, the challenges, and the knowing smirk… From the beginning, Mademoiselle had her eyes on Dusseau!"

A month ago, Oikawa would not have imagined that he would respond to that statement with such ferocity and indignation, “That’s not true romancing, though! Just fleeting words and veiled meaning! It’s reaching, but it’s not there yet. Just… the stepping stones. Not at the gate.”

“But without those stepping stones, you wouldn’t have gotten to the gate. It’s the little sparks that burn down the forest.”

“If you say so.” Oikawa sighed, before switching the subject, “Anyway, Shimazaki asked me to meet her tomorrow for more practice. Maybe I could learn about how Mademoiselle feels about this herself, but who knows?”

———

Just as her words, Shimazaki showed up at the volleyball court at exactly 7:30, when no one but him and Iwa-chan remained, especially on a Friday evening. He stepped out from the gym’s shower, steams still curling around his brown locks when he spotted Shimazaki standing near the entrance.

“This is the only court that still has its light on, so I assumed.” Shimazaki shrugged when meeting his eyes, before stepping into the threshold. “How do you want to do this? On the audience stand, or right in the middle of the court.”

“The court, if you would like. Better lighting, that way.” 

Somewhen between the first five minutes of their theatre practice, Iwa-chan emerged from the locker room, perhaps just finished with the load of paperwork that he had taken from Oikawa’s, and raised his brow questioningly at Shimazaki. Oikawa just waved him away; they could go home separately for a day. Shimazaki nodded in Iwa-chan’s direction, before continuing,

“Monsieur Dusseau, if you would please…”

“Yes, ma’am.” _Dusseau bowed, before approaching Monsieur d’Aubigne. M. d’Aubigne sputtered, but obliged nonetheless. He bowed to Mlle. de Villette and let Dusseau escort him away. END SCENE._

Shimazaki let down her book, face neutral. “You did well, Oikawa-kun, especially for a newcomer.” 

_What the hell does that even mean?_ Oikawa began with a smile, “Thank you, Shimazaki-san. Whatever I might lack, I’d have to entrust the instructions to you and the rest of the cast.” And.... slapped on his signature smile.

Shimazaki returned half of the gesture, before continuing, “I had my doubts, Oikawa-kun, I must admit. But you seemed to be earnest about this.” She paused, turning the pages, before continuing, “Nonetheless, there are quite a few things that we must address. For example, your micro-actions need a little bit of work on. It’s okay that you have yet to develop them as of right now, but I figure we might as well get started.

“Another matter, however,...” She paused, fiddling with the corner of the pages, “Oikawa-san, I must know… how serious are you with the theatre?”

“Not as serious as you or Aya— Yamamoto-san are, of course. But I understood that, well, this is a competition and you guys have a lot of stakes riding on this one.”

“Of course. Just as the volleyball club had its own regional rivalries, we, too, had our own grudges and contenders.” Shimazaki nodded, “Competition aside, how serious are you, with theatre on itself?"

“I mean… I suppose that I won’t be doing more of it after this production. It’s not like I’m going to make a career out of this or anything, you know? A future hobby, maybe.”

Shimazaki nodded, in understanding, “Then, how serious are you with this production?” When Oikawa tried to respond, she continued, “Not in the ‘this is a competition and Seijou must win’ kind of commitment, but what is this, to you? What do you want from here?

“This, Oikawa-san, is the question you must answer if you want to be the best Alexander Dusseau that you can be.” She stood up, with the grace of Mademoiselle de Villette— the grace of an actress that lives and breathes her art, “Perhaps, well, you should compare it with what volleyball meant to you, too.”

The clock ticked toward 8:30. An hour-long session, three scenes covered ahead of the schedule, and somehow, Oikawa thought, that was all Shimazaki wanted to talk to him about.

———

“What the hell does Shimazaki want from me?”

“What?” Oikawa assumed that the scattered slamming of volleyball would mask his grumbling, but evidently not. “Is she giving you trouble or something?”

“Not really,” Oikawa licked his lips, before taking off — sprinted, then soared through the air, slamming the balls down with all the force of his frustration; it almost went out of bound — “she asked if I’m really serious with theatre, and then what does it meant to me." He breathed, “Nothing much, easy. I just can’t tell her that, of course.” He shrugged noncommittally.

“I mean…” Iwa-chan paused, before passing him another ball. They were working on their serves today. “I know that I virtually forced you to do it, but at the end of the day, something new must creep into that hollow skull of yours, right?”

“Wha… Iwa-chan!” He threw the ball back, just to be irritating, “Of course I’m learning something new! Technical terms, micro-action, or whatever that is, acting…”

“I don’t mean that, Shittykawa.” His best friend caught the ball with ease, bouncing it against the floor, “I meant in the same line as Shimazaki’s question. Like, you learn something from theatre, and it meant something to you. Something more than just the acting and talking.”

He huffed, scrunching his brows in contemplation, but didn’t want to deal with it. The silence stretched thin, almost severed by the sounds around them, as they walk toward the net. Iwa-chan just looked straight ahead and demanded him to set the ball so that he could spike. Like the good friend and teammate that he is, Oikawa obliged. Iwa-chan tossed the ball, a perfect parabola like those printed on his textbook.

Having the comfortable weight of volleyball on his hand was nice. Felt like home, almost.

He set the ball high this time, judging from their relative distance from the net. Flawless, as always. Iwa-chan sprinted up, leaping through the stifling air and the echoes surround them, and slammed the ball down. Whether a player was defending the target or not, the ball would surely demolish all of their control.

“She said that, well, comparing it to volleyball might help.”

“Alright. That makes sense.” Iwa-chan looked at him and shrugged. “What is volleyball to you, then?”

“My entire life, Iwa-chan?” Oikawa scoffed and mockingly widened his eyes, “The thing I had been, and will, dedicate the rest of my life to?”

“Okay, if it’s your entire life, then what does it mean? What are you committing your entire life to?”

Silence befell. Oikawa reserved it for thinking, and Iwa-chan, waiting for him to think. The world passed them by, one slam of volleyball by one, but the bubble of Oikawa’s thoughts seemed to be a vacuum. The voices began to muse all together, and Oikawa briefly thought that one would break their bubble soon, asking why the captain and vice-captain seemingly frozen in thought — maybe accompanying a ball to the back of their heads, even. But nothing seemed to happen. As if even the universe was questioning, and demanded from him a response.

“It's just… the familiarity, at the first sight,” Oikawa breathed, eyeing the well-worn volleyball that twisted and turned involuntarily by his hands, “a familiar weight on my hand, familiar movement, familiar breath… It’s just as natural as breathing. Like, eating rice for every dinner. It’s just something that's been with me since forever. A friend, as old as you, Iwa-chan.” He looked up, and Iwa-chan still stood there, listening. No coaxing nor persuasion. “It’s fun, too. Exhilarating. Every sting that flares up when I serve, the satisfaction the moment a ball leaves my hand, every time I correctly predict a move and guide everyone about it. It’s like, I live for those moments. Every hardship, every failure, every injury,... everything became worth it when I knew that I… I accomplished something.

“There is a certain bliss in that, I suppose. Feeling like life is just and certain, that my effort counts, that everything is worth something.

“And I want to chase that sensation for my entire life. Those good-feeling moments and collect the motions that build it up.” Oikawa stopped the momentum of the ball with a slap of his hands, looking straight into his vice-captain’s eyes, and they understood. Iwa-chan moved back a metre or two, then nodded. The ball bounced away and leaped back. “It’s how I measure my growth, too,” His exhale harmonized with Iwa-chan’s brisk footsteps, and the ball left his hand. Minus tempo, closer to the net this time. He didn't see where it landed. “Every time the consistency of my serves increases, every time my serves get stronger, every time I improve the synchronicity with my spikers… Everything counts. Everything builds up into a stronger Seijou.”

“So, your life is volleyball and your worth rests in volleyball.” Iwa-chan spun his spiking arm, “Maybe that’s why I want you to get out there and try something new, every once a while.”

“You make it sound way worse! Of course, I have other things in life besides volleyball!”

“Yeah, alright, how is implicit differentiation going?”

Oikawa’s squeak answered more than any word could suffice.


	2. to your eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which life is hard and very, very rude, so you just have to learn math, instead.  
> Anyway, Oikawa Tooru still hates implicit differentiation. Even if he understands it, somehow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i warned yall about the math, right?

To M. Dusseau: [attached an image]

To M. Dusseau: look at these fancy fabrics, mr fancy guard.

To M. Dusseau: this is all for the ballroom scene btw

To M. Dusseau: of course we wont have time to stitch up every single outfit for that scene, but you, mlle de villette, and your entourage got the special treatment >:D

Suga quickly pocketed this phone and went back to work. Asahi was still at the other shore of the ocean of fabric, stalking his chalk over a trail of velvety lavender fabric as long as his arm could manage. Suga wondered if he could guess how tall each of the cast members was, purely on the stride of Asahi’s arm.

He probably could, though looking at the notes would be way more convenient, especially putting neck length into considerations.

Spring High was over for almost a month, and the third years promptly retired shortly after, letting Ennoshita wetting his feet at head-locking his teammates into order. From their weekly visit, it seemed that the “we got to be nice, the third years won’t be here to lecture and cover for us anymore” charm is slowly shriveling. None of them would go on with their volleyball career, he knew, and university exams were slowly approaching, anyway, so retiring right then was the most appropriate. But the lack of something to do with his hand, especially after a strenuous day of classes was over, was messing up his brain. Somehow, with more free time to study, the words just seemed to jumble over each other even more. And making their visits more frequent than once a week... well, they have decided that it would only put a damper to Ennoshita’s effort.

Hence, he jumped at the chance to help the theatre club with their biggest production of the year, perhaps the biggest in all the years that he attended the school. The club isn’t one of their best-funded, unlike that of Seijou, notwithstanding Karasuno’s already minimal funding for the extracurriculars; but what resulted still, was a group of passionate kids whose staging and crafting skills were enough to attract regional recognition — a point of pride for Karasuno, even. Okada has hoped that after this collaboration, the budget for the club would increase; perhaps enough to purchase better, softer fabrics and better lighting, instead of having to borrow other schools’ equipment for their events. The job gave him something productive to do, while temporary enough for the last two months of the school year. 

The mountains of fabrics, one that he captured for Oikawa’s seeing, was purchased by Seijou’s money and Karasuno’s — more like Okada’s, really — shady contact that sold the material at half the market price. Only the outermost layer is velvet and silk, all dyed in the most majestic shades of cold and warm hues. They shined in folds and luster in fringes, if the light hits just right, and sparkled on as they shift in and out from the light. For the ladies’ dresses, below that was another layer of fabric, lathered on top of a fold of cotton, which barely peeked out of the downy veneer, mainly to hide the peaks and hollows of the bluffing frame beneath. Asahi and Okada had fun playing with the ornated dresses, Suga mused, though his favorite is the men’s suits by far. Oikawa’s, in particular.

That was why the batches of fabrics that he was responsible for cutting out, right now, belong to Oikawa’s costume. Unlike the soft and flowing silk of the women’s, the wool of the outercoat is thicker, framing the body and handling its own weight. The roll of oxford blue was dotted in silver and bronze leaflets intertwined, flutter mutedly in _droguet_. The subtle details were barely discernible from afar, but every close-up shot would reveal the intricacies of the suit. 

Suga glanced at a copy of the design sheet that was stapled upon the wall adjacent to his seat, his fingertips absentmindedly traced the stiff bumps of stitched patterns against scratchy wool. The outercoat, once cut and stitched, would be embellished with more gold and silver fringes that trailed from underneath the stiff collar flap, along the opening, then curved toward the back of the coat and covered the cuffs in wild branches. The waistcoat seemed more extravagant, though simpler to make: mere bronze embroidered cotton without many embellishments, sharply contrasted the outer layer. They played around with the details of the script a little — Dusseau’s outfit was supposedly borrowed from his cousin, who saved it from his father’s collection — and made the outercoat’s cut a bit longer than the others suit, following the fashion of the earlier era. If anything, the design would make the male lead seem even more striking. In Asahi’s sketches, the brownish hue of the waistcoat would reflect and enhance the patterns stitched upon the outercoat. The knee-length pants would be cut from the same blue fabric, unembellished and plain. The shirts proved to be least of work: a simple high-collar shirt attached with extravagant frills in stark white. They cheated a little - making the shirt sleeveless so that the actor won’t overheat, and instead attached white fringes to the outer coat, one that imitates the existence of a long-sleeved shirt.

His phone rang, suddenly.

From M. Dusseau: which one of those is mine? they better be as pretty as me ;P

To M. Dusseau: the dark blue one

To M. Dusseau: and worry not, any of them would be prettier than you ;D

From M. Dusseau: i know i set it up, but that’s mean, suga-chan D:<

To M. Dusseau: my pleasure :D

———

The third rehearsal was uneventful, mostly. They acted out the first two scenes on-book, with Sashihara and occasionally, even Shimazaki, pointing out mistakes and suggestions. 

Just as Shimazaki mentioned to him, his acting was a little lacking in regards to small details. Sashihara did not ask him to mind every little detail of his move, but instead, to try to be more natural — his shifting and hand movements were a little too exaggerated — while Shimazaki, with a stone-cold voice and stone-cold stare, suggest other gesture that he could instead employ, with less flair and more of the serious, awkward stiffness of a newly hired guard. The director had focused on fixing his accentuation — more grovel and subdued, maybe speaking more with a natural accent, since Dusseau is of common origin — and he has proved to be a quick learner. He even spied Sashihara's satisfied smile every time he successfully corrected his stance.

That seemed to be the overall rhythm of the meeting: slow, focused in refining the small details, while the remainder of the casts practiced their lines. The screenwriters, Tashima and Miyawaki, paid them a visit, but did not announce themselves until Sashihara excitedly waved and hollered their names. If they left before everyone else did, Oikawa did not notice. 

He would not have noticed, because, besides the focus needed to portray Dusseau and taking notes of adjustments he needed to make, Oikawa was weighed by the tense stare from Shimazaki’s eyes every time they were forced to look at each other. Considering that this scene is Dusseau and de Villette’s first meeting, and he was challenged to a battle of rhythm, yes, there were indeed a lot of eye contacts...

And playful smirking, and smug chuckles, and amused liftings of the head, and bemused brow-lifts, but supposedly none of the discreet antagonism in Shimazaki’s eyes. Rather than romancing, it seemed as if Shimazaki was contemplating how to best devour him alive — her smile was as sweet and arrogant as it should, but vexation has flashed into malice. Yet, there they were; even Aya seemed to notice the enmity, and toward the end of the rehearsal, overtly compensated by her excessive giggles and hand movement that ought to overflow the whimsicalness of Madame du Blois. 

So when Shimazaki asked if they could stay back today, he said yes. By the look from her eyes, it was either then or later. No worth in trying to lengthen the trepidation of when she would rip his guts out (for being an incompetent male lead, maybe?).

When Sashihara finally left, right after announcing that she was stuffing the keys into Shimazaki’s bag, the female lead waited for the director to depart the threshold before looking up at him.

“Let’s start at line eighty.” She pronounced, without looking at the script. Line eighty was his first.

“Alright.” Oikawa lilted, trying to elevate the mood as much as possible, lest his will be crushed under the tension between them. He cleared his throat, moving back behind the curtain before the scene began.

Oikawa breathed, then walked toward Shimazaki, his steps stern and formal, like how a guard should be. Approaching the seat closest to him — where supposedly Madame du Blois sat, her back to him — he bowed.

“Alexander Dusseau, my lady,” He breathed out the last syllable — subdued and formal, as Sashihara expected — “I am honored to serve the Duke and his estates.”

“Of course, the Duke and his estates.” Shimazaki sighed, placing down the teacup, her shoulders subtly downtrodden — theatrical in the action’s own repression. Her face, at this stage of the rehearsal, settled on a brief, disappointed frown, “Never a thought for the Duchess and the ladies. And you, dear Amelie, wondered why I would depart this hinterland.”

“I meant no offense, Mademoiselle, the words are merely procedural.” He rose from his bow, the words flat and repressed, staring straight into Shimazaki’s eyes.

“As if it would improve such anything, honored guard.” The corner of her lips curved up mischievously, “Honored guards, all swords and words, no senses found!”

Silence passed. Oikawa estimated the time it took for Aya to recite her lines, then continue, a smug smirk on his face, “May that it be,” He lifted his feet, subtler than before, then straightened his back, “that little squirrel, so shrewd and mellow, steal away your sack, while you’re so lively in talk.”

Shimazaki, following his lead, let the air fill what could have been Aya’s lines. She continued, after, “What a shame, a scholar made a lowly guard. Have the hustle of Paris proved fruitless and fatuous to you, Monsieur, that it pushed you to the weary fringes of mother France?” Shimazaki moved forward in her seat and grabbing the teacup again, smugness somehow bled through the movement of her shoulders.

“Mademoiselle, it is true that I am from Paris, but for a much different reason had I come hither.” 

“And a story of the newcomer, I shall yet to pry,” Shimazaki sipped the nonexistent tea in her cup, before stopping. With the remaining grace of Mlle. de Villette, Shimazaki placed the cup down, before staring at him, “You know, a commoner wouldn’t dare to stare so long at a noble.”

“What?” 

“You stared at my face for too long. From ‘May it be…’ all the way to ‘... come hither’, you were staring at me.” Shimazaki frowned, “Let’s do it again.”

“Wait, so how long was I supposed to —”

“Only look at my eyes when you finish the rhyme, then act like you are aware that it was childish for a commoner to bait noblewomen, and look down. Away from my face.”

They repeated the motions, once more.

“... had I come hither!”

“At the last syllable, keep your voice low.” Shimazaki said, without making eye contact, “Let’s try again.”

“... while you are so—”

“You rose too early this time, try again.”

“... had I come hither!”

“Don’t flat out your voice like that. It sounded too stiff.”

“... had I come—”

“Not too flamboyant, you are supposed to be a guard. You need to be formal and impersonal.”

“May that it be—”

“You forgot to lift your feet this time.”

“Does my acting have to be a carbon copy of each other every single take?” 

“No, but without lifting your feet, the gesture looks too stiff. And unenergetic.” She sighed, irritably scrunching her brow, “We should stop here today, since you are clearly out of steam.”

“And you are not?”

“Not when we are running through a single scene for the entire section, no.”

Oikawa smiled, veins popping in his head, “Is that so?”

Shimazaki had no intention to call it a truce, “If you are so irritated, you could take this seriously and be better so that we could move on.”

“Or maybe you can be a little helpful instead of throwing out rude criticism.”

“You know, I won’t have to do any of it if Hirose is here instead of you.”

Okay. Nope.

Calming breath, come on.

“You know, and I don’t have to put up with any of it. Sashihara doesn’t even care about all these minuscule things you demanded that I must do, and she clearly understands that nothing is ever perfect, so why don’t you just get over it?”

“Because, Oikawa Tooru,” Shimazaki stressed, “getting over it means this entire production is going to hell! And that means,” she breathed, “the competition, the one that you told me you understood how important it is, we’re going to lose. Sashihara is babying you, while we have no time for it!”

“Why can’t you believe that I’m trying my best? Of course, I’m not going to be as good as you or Hirose, but don’t you know that I also worked my ass off here? To please you and your ridiculous standard?”

“No, I don’t know, Oikawa. Maybe because you’re only here because Hirose quit!”

Before any of them were aware of it, their voices rose and resonated across the empty auditorium. The light flickered, so were their breaths and the anger sparkled in Shimazaki’s eyes. Before the silence could cement itself into the air, she breathed.

“I think we should stop for today. My apology, Oikawa-san.”

They locked up and left. They split way somewhere after the first bus stop, but the silence has nested its weight in his throat, and seemingly has no intention of leaving.

To Iwa-chan :3: would you mind if the theatre kids kick me out for incompetence? 

From Iwa-chan :3: call me when you get home.

———

He almost didn’t do it, but decided that a later confrontation would be even messier. After taking a proper shower, pulling out his notes and homework (even though he knew that he wouldn’t even touch them), Oikawa dialed his best friend’s number.

“Hey, Shittykawa.”

“It’s me, Iwa-chan.”

“Wow, that’s new.”

Silence engulfed the scene, except for the little scratches of pen on paper that imbued the silence from Iwa-chan’s line. Like all of their conversations, when things are getting heavy. Like Iwa-chan always expected him to speak first. Quiet, awaiting, and patient.

Unlike life, sometimes.

“Do you think that I could quit?”

“The notorious Oikawa Tooru, quitting? That’s going to be new.”

He sighed, “In volleyball, yeah, but not theatre. I have never been known to step foot into that scene, and it can stay that way.

“Would you be mad, though, if I quit? You wanted me to try, right?”

“Depending on why, I might or might not be mad about it.” He heard the pen stop, and the ruffle of Iwa-chan’s clothes, “Hey, you know that I’m not forcing you to do anything that you are uncomfortable with, right? I just think that it might be good for you to get out of the court once in a while. This was supposed to be fun and relaxing for you.”

“A competition, right. Relaxing.”

“Any competition would be more relaxing than if I let you wallow in guilt, or insecurities, or whatever else you are slumping into after Spring High.”

“Yeah,” he sighed, closing his eyes and slouched onto his table, “I supposed I have been in a ‘weird mood’, or so I have been told.”

“The thing is,” Iwa-chan exhaled weightily, “that I don’t want you to be in that ‘weird mood’ any longer than you have to, and months after our last match is way more than enough to reflect on your failures and whatever that is that they usually preach. So, you know how it rolls. Learn from it, hone your skills, and move on.

“But if you can’t seem to move on, well, then I’m here to haul your ass on after you’ve been sitting on the ground for too damn long.”

“Thanks, Iwa-chan,” he laughed, “I think there is wisdom somewhere in that porcupine head of yours.”

“Damn right there is.”

“That’s why I love you, Iwa-chan.”

He thought that he had made his decision, then.

———

All of it, however, fell down like a brittle edge of a cliff as the rehearsal schedule loomed over. Maybe quitting was the right decision, after all.

Especially since this was nothing like volleyball.

The differences are clear. He knew what he was doing every step of the way in volleyball. Where to step, how high to jump. How to fix his little mistakes and recover before they lose a point. Who to set to, how to deceive the audience, how to lose a point but win a match — everything, because he lived it his entire life and breathed volleyball to survive. There was nothing like that, here. Everything must be a polished perfection at every moment, their every move scrutinized and judged for the fun of the people. Picture-perfect smile, gesture, intonation — everything crafted and sculpted until the only thing left are actions and not human.

The auditorium is dark whereas the court is bright, blindingly so. The crowds of volleyball are lively and excited, whereas, in theatre, everyone is as a silent judge. In volleyball, there is nothing but the people and the ball. In theatre…

… There is sound, props, staging, music… an intricate mix that the subtlest mistake would bring everything into a halt.

“Oikawa-kun? Is everything okay?”

He startled out of his reverie, and in front of him were the concerned eyes of one Aya-chan. Her brows were scrunched, and he involuntarily blinked with the rhythm of her hand, now waving in front of him.

“You seemed distracted, Oikawa-kun. That’s not like you at all.” She continued.

He blinked a little bit more, before glancing down and remembering that he was supposed to be learning his lines for the remainder of Act One. On the stage, Shimazaki and another group were practicing the scene before his next one.

Oikawa belatedly realized that he let the silence wash over them for too long, “Ah… nothing is wrong, really, I guess I’m just tired, today.” He flashed a smile but did not know whether or not it looked like one, “You know, classes and stuff. Exams coming up.”

“Hmm. Of course. Get home early today if you must, Haruna-chan would understand.” Aya seemed like she knew he was lying, but decided not to pursue it. 

It took him more than a moment to realize that his late-stays with Shimazaki wasn’t exactly a secret— Right, the leads must spend more time with each other, practicing the play than the rest of the cast. And they just stayed together two days ago. 

Well, that was plenty of time to decide on whether he should quit the team, right?

Before he could break into musing again, a commotion began outside of the side door of the auditorium right by the stage. Not exactly a ruckus, but a loud mix of laughter, followed by a violent, sudden opening of the door and then soft silver flooded in his eyes and the sound of bronze bells--

“Suga-chan?” He murmured. There was no one around but Aya to hear it, and she leaned forward to look at the door.

Suga was the one to open the door, and following his laughter were the staging and lighting teams, clunky equipment in their hands. Most of those, he couldn’t even discern their uses. Suga glanced around, and his eyes widened in confusion. 

“Sashihara-san?” Suga called out, “Isn’t the auditorium reserved for staging props, today?”

Sashihara tilted her head backward, while her hand was still from where it was pointing at… something, a while ago. “The casts always meet on Tuesday and Thursday.” Saying so, however, she hopped off the stage, and rummaged through her bag for the master schedule, “It says here that… oh, you are right, the auditorium is _also_ booked today for you guys.”

“But where are we going to practice, then?” Someone called out from the stage.

“Anyone know where Yuri is?”

“In the club room, helping Yoshida-kun with some budget things.” Aya helpfully added, “Should I call her?”

“No need, I suppose.” Sashihara shrugged, “We could always move somewhere else. The courtyard would work, or any sports courts, really.”

Immediately, everyone’s eyes seemed to be on him. 

“Uhm… The volleyball court is off, today?” Oikawa swallowed, “And I have a key?”

"Alright!” Sashihara cheered, and so did everyone else, “You heard the man, people, we are invading the volleyball court!”

And so they moved out of the auditorium. There were loud chatters from both the techs and the cast, and some picked up their bags as their other hand clutched the scripts, still deep in characters. Aya moved quickly, too, since her bag probably was left on the other side of the room. Oikawa, however, didn't move, and his eyes stood still on Suga’s figure. After a moment of glancing around — looking for him, hopefully — Suga’s eyes arrived at his spot, and he gave out an excited wave and a toothy grin that rivaled the sun. As quick as the gesture came, it left, and Suga was looking for something… a door stopper, it seemed. Oikawa eyed his figure, agilely pushed the door a little bit wider and stuffed the stopper underneath it, before jogging toward him.

“Hey, male lead, how are things going?”

“Well, it’s going to get much better or way worse from here on, but who am I to say?”

“For the sake of everyone, let’s go down the better route.” He grinned, as if positivity could bleed from his smile and marinated Oikawa’s body, “The suit is, like, one-third done, by the way. Asahi is going to be the one to stitch it up.”

“Oh, and not you?” Being in a banter this fun lifted his mood, or maybe it was just the change of topic and the excitement in Suga’s eyes.

“Oh, please. I am but a mere errand boy.” Suga sighed, leaning sideways ever so dramatically, before continuing, “I am told that I’m allowed to help with the final touches later on, though! Under supervision, of course. And from now to then, I’m going to stick with the staging team!”

“A busy man, aren’t you?”

“The price of being so versatile and useful. Not as busy as a lead, though, I suppose.”

This change in topic did little to serve his mood, “As I said, it is about to get really good, or really bad.”

“And as I said,” Suga patted his shoulder, “let’s all hope that it all becomes better! Go on your merry way, Monsieur, the cast is waiting for your key!”

Oikawa blinked, looked around, and suddenly it dawned on that he was the only one beside Shimazaki, who was still fiddling with her bag, hanging around. He glanced at her, and she only gave him a curt nod; and at Suga’s laughter — his face must have seemed ridiculous now, wasn’t it — he snatched his bag and ran out of the door.

“Bye, Suga-chan! Catch up with you later!”

All he heard in reply was Suga’s boisterous laugh.

Well, it was time to make that volleyball’s speed into good use.

  
  


From Suga-chan: that cafe down the street, end of rehearsal?

From Suga-chan: i will wait for you down at the court.

———

Suga must have been waiting for a while, because when Oikawa returned Shimazaki a nod goodbye — right before Aya pulled her out of the threshold, excitedly talking about an ice cream shop of some sort — Suga’s bright grin was greeting him right by the door. The guy leaned leisurely toward the wall’s wooden panels, hand crossed and his school bag puddled near his feet. Right at that moment, Suga hopped toward him, the brightness of his grin never seemed to diminish.

“Seems like someone is in a good mood today.” Oikawa raised his brow testily.

“Sure is.” If his tone was any bit mocking or venomous, Suga didn’t show, “Delivered a tonne of cut-outs to Seijou today, so I’m free from that prison of fabric. You don’t know how much silk and linen could weigh until you have rolls and rolls worth of them resting on your thighs.” He sighed, and then the grin promptly returned, “And the staging is going well! You should have seen the kind of stuff they made for Act One alone! Seijou’s money is being put to good use, you should know that!”

“Oh, really?” Oikawa swallowed, Suga picking his bag up on the way as they made their way toward the exit, “How so?”

“Well, Karasuno usually uses cardboard sheets, before.” Suga smacked his lips, “They are cheap, easy to keep, too, but can be kind of flimsy if you have any ‘accidents’ with them. So we reinforced them at the back every once a while. But you can’t do a lot with them, the colors fade out after a while, and if you paint on them there is practically no way to redesign it.

“But Seijou, well, you guys have enough plastic sheets to make do — the corrugated ones, by the way, the good one — and so. The staging team went wild with it.”

“Suga-chan is soooo adorable when he talks theatrics,” Oikawa cooed, and he meant it, but reigned it in with a touch of sarcasm in his voice, “What a theatre nerd.”

“Oh, please, and here you are, a volleyball star turned the Northern star of theatre,” Suga was doing some weird movement to his face, but no matter how strange it was, Oikawa thought it was kind of cute. _No, brain, bad!_ “Seems like we are not so different, after all.”

“Is that so?” _What?_

Suga hummed in agreement, “Never thought that once we beat you guys at the volleyball court, here comes a day when foe become friend, on the high stage.”

Wait.

Holy shit.

What?

Is this…?

“The curiosity of life, you may say.” Oikawa chuckled shakily, “Though, nonetheless, I once again emerged as the star of the story.”

Is this _Mr. Refreshing_?

(Silver hair, beaming smile, too-loud yet so-soft voice. Gazes that can be so, so intense for what seemed like an ocean of sweet nectar. Deceitful, mischievous smile. Annoyingly accurate serves, the same kind of annoyingly accurate remarks. Thoughtfulness behind every movement.)

Oh heaven.

(Overwhelmingly positive.)

How did he never realize it until _now_?

(Okay, this was awkward.)

To Iwa-chan :3: i accidentally fraternized with the enemy.

“Debatable, Monsieur Dusseau,” Suga was not at all disturbed by his remarks, it seemed. (And it was not like he would be the _Northern star_ , or any of that, soon. Perhaps.) “You, of all people, should know the power of those who hold up the stage.”

“Of course, de Castries and his company, who aided the nameless noble to the de Villette’s ball.” Oikawa began…

“And the underdogs of Paris, signaling a call to justice.” And Suga continued, “Enough for Dusseau to return, from the border.”

“And it was not just because Mademoiselle de Villette is soon to be the Duchess of Croy?” 

“Perhaps, partly. But if it was not for Paris, mayhaps they could convince each other to run away.”

“Cliche much, then?”

“Yet it would make a sweet ending. Not all cliches are bad.”

“It becomes boring when the world exploits it so extensively.”

“Soon, the anti-cliche will become a cliche. And then, tragedies will become what is expected. Is it so bad that happiness is the norm?”

The conversation broke off, and the adrenaline of being challenged into a match of script-evaluating is soon lost to the dread and awkwardness that came from… who knows, not realizing that your new favorite person to talk to is the same Mr. Refreshing that haunted your dream for at least a week after your last match at Spring High?

(It’s weird, how life could be. How something that could be good can be made shameful through the bleeding wound of failure.

How life, then, gives you a restart. And it was too late to deny it, this time.)

This was too much of a revelation when they were supposed to sit around on cushioned booths and do homework and not think about things-like-this. They did get to the homework, nonetheless, by the time their drinks arrived. This was the same cafe that he, Iwa-chan, and the team often met up at, if not for failed homework sessions then for out-right lazing around and complaining about everything that they could complain about. Oikawa and Hanamaki were usually the stars of those sessions.

Heaven above, he wished he could complain to Hanamaki just about everything right now. 

But nonetheless, Mr. Refreshing — Suga-chan — is here, in his stead, and seemed to be a model student, from the way nothing seemed to distract him from whatever that is that he was working on. So much for catching up.

Not like they need to catch up much, anyway; if his call history and message logs were anything believable. 

“So…” nonetheless, Oikawa could not help but begin.

“So..?” Suga looked up from his notebook, then glanced over at Oikawa’s blank pages, “What are you working on?”

He decided, then, that it was a response as good as any to slump dramatically onto the table and let out a long, suffering sigh, “Math. You know, the usual.”

“What kind of math?”

“Implicit differentiation.” The words tasted disgusting on his breath.

“You guys are still on that one?”

“No, supposedly.” Oikawa’s sigh turned even more dejected, if that was even possible, “We just covered related rates yesterday, but you know how it is. Can’t do that without knowing implicit differentiation.”

“Not to brag, but my class reached Rolle’s Theorem already.”

“What the hell is that?”

“Exactly.”

Oikawa whined into the table. Math was hurting his heart, more than theatre would ever be. Why, why had his life become like this? He needs neither math nor theatre to play volleyball, and literally would never need differentiation in his life after this, so why--

“You know, I could help you with the work? If you want?”

“Iwa-chan gave up on me three days ago and told me that it’s okay if I fail this test, so I don’t know how you could ever rescue me.”

“Is Iwaizumi-san that good at math or teaching?”

“He is way better than me at math, yes, and he somehow taught me two-dimensional kinematics a year ago, so, that’s also a yes.”

“Two-dimensional kinematics isn’t that hard if you remember the Trigo—”

“If you finish that word, I’m going to cry.”

Suga hissed sympathetically, “Is it that bad?”

“It is. It is _that_ bad.” Oikawa stressed the consonant and felt every bit pathetic as his ability to learn any kind of mathematics. Time rolled by beside them; he had since grown desperate, “Please, salvage me from this abyss.”

“Alright, Northern star,” Suga chuckled, the breathy melody resonated somewhere behind his mind.

“Are you going to keep calling me that?”

“Shut up, male lead, and come over here so that I can see what you are working on.”

Oikawa immediately shuffled over, and perhaps his face has brightened too much — worthy of a man just being rescued from the dark cave of mathematics, probably — because Suga gave out a giggle that tried to be subtle but wasn’t at all; Suga shifted over, dropping his bag unceremoniously on the ground. The table was small and squared, meant for two people at most, had they sat face to face. At that moment, though, Oikawa did not mind the propinquity as much as minding his escape from the convoluted labyrinth of mathematics, and pushed his shoulder against Suga’s, both of them sitting on the cushioned booth, leaning toward each other. Half of their bodies were touching, but Oikawa did not mind.

Oh, he did not mind at all. 

Suga shifted away a little, just so that he had both of his hands for writing and for guiding Oikawa through the problem. Suga’s right hand clutched a pen, and his left tracing the letters on Oikawa’s workbook while his lips quietly parted, mumbling to the rhythm of the words. Oikawa glanced at him, then at the book, the problem well-memorized in his brain without necessarily any understanding.

Suga moved on to whatever progress Oikawa had made, his brow scrunched in concentration; the pale willow of his fingers fleeted back and forth between printed and written words.

“So, you got all the variables and base formula right,” Suga said, glancing at him briefly just to make sure that he was paying attention, probably. 

And their eyes met. Did he ever notice how warm and pretty Suga’s eyes are, or was it a trick of the light? They are more amber than honey, bright and sparkling under the cheap fluorescence of the cafe, wide and earnest. They stared right into his, an off-guard motion that left nothing to swathe his orbs beside its innate temper and the way light seemed to dance in it—

Suga cleared his throat, breaking Oikawa out of his stupor, “It’s true that the only problem you seemed to have, then, is with the actual differentiation itself. What steps do you know of it?”

“Well, you differentiate both sides, like how you would normally do it…” Oikawa eyed Suga, who was expectantly nodding at him, “And… that’s it.”

“So, what is particularly confusing about it?”

“I… don’t know?”

“Alright, then.” Suga grinned, sliding the book toward him, “Let’s see you do it, and then we can go from there.”

Oikawa shifted, then began to scribble the equations down. He can feel Suga pressing in closer, his breath caressing Oikawa’s shoulder. It was mildly distracting, and Oikawa’s digits were more rushed and shaky than they usually were, but—

“There, at the 'y'!” Suga exclaimed, pointing at it with his pen, “You have to use chain rule for it.”

“What? Why?”

“Because y is a function of x, right.” Suga paused just to look at him, “You can think of it as one ‘y’ is a group of ‘x’. You need to find the derivatives of ‘y’, but you can’t, because we didn’t isolate x’s to resemble a linear equation for you to even begin to do that.” Suga lightly circled the variable in his notebook, light enough not to leave a mark, “So, you just have to add a ‘dy/dx’ there.”

“And then…?”

“And then, when everything else is differentiated, you isolate ‘dy/dx’.’”

“What about the left-over y’s?”

“You leave them there, they are parts of the new equation.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. I supposed that no one ever explained why you need the ‘dy/dx’?”

“No… They didn’t…”

“Even your ‘Iwa-chan’?” Suga smirking has grown smug again. 

“Even my Iwa-chan, Suga-chan.” He returned the gesture, taking that sweet little victory in seeing Suga slightly taken back, his cheeks flushing a nice shade of petal pink, “Thank you, though, honestly! You’re my savior!”

“When is your upcoming test?”

“... Two days from now.”

“Yeah, now I kind of understand why Iwaizumi-san gave up on you. What would you ever do without me?”

“Fail the test?” Oikawa smiled testily, now that his test grade has been somewhat salvaged, then sighed, “You know, who needs Calculus to play volleyball?”

“You don’t need theatre to play volleyball either, but here we are.”

Now that was quick to damper his mood. 

Oikawa slumped onto his half of the table, his left arm dropped sadly down his side, “About that…”

“Is everything going fine?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s the best answer I’ve heard from you this entire day.” At this accusing glare, Suga added, “I have been trying to get you to admit to that, you know.”

“Oh, and my literary answer was not good enough for you?”

“Pretty words sometimes are hollow, you know better than anyone about that.”

Oikawa sighed dejectedly and turned his head away from Suga’s scrutinizing gaze. He has had more than enough of that, lately. “Shimazaki got on my ass for every little thing. And it’s not like I’m a theatre genius or something, anyway. 

“She went on a whole spiel yesterday about how slow I am and how bad I am at every single thing, and then was mad at me for not taking theatre seriously! Like, sure, I can’t be as serious about it as she was, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not trying! This is nothing like volleyball, anyway, how am I supposed to be good at it like she was? 

“And then, apparently, she was mad that I got in because Hirose quit? Like, who does that?”

The cafe seemed busy for a weekday evening, faceless people flooding in and out like water in pipes. The noise they emitted was more than enough to compensate for his volume, or they might have made a scene in a random cafe shop near Seijou— where Seijou students very much loved to coagulate and leave behind their whispers.

He can hear Suga leaning back from behind him, and the sound of his feet propped on top of the abandoned chair in front of them. How did his eyes look, then? Oikawa could not help but wonder.

“I mean, I guess I understand why Shimazaki is mad that Hirose refused to audition this time.”

“What?”

“Hold up, hear me out, because there is a lot to unpack, but first you both need to understand each other.” Suga cut him off, and his indignant look — now that umbrage has punched him back into a sitting position and forced him to look at his companion — “Did you know that Hirose and Shimazaki had been paired up in every production that they had participated in? Not necessarily as leads, but like, they have always agreed on which productions to audition for and whatnot, and so they are like, crazily in sync. I was surprised that Hirose wasn’t here when I got there.

“They are kind of like you and Iwaizumi-san on the court, really.”

He winced at the comparison, “Doesn’t give her an excuse to act so… rude, to me.”

“No, it definitely doesn’t.” Suga nodded, “But you do understand how this production was hard on her, too, right? They need to win this year, so much that they agreed to be paired with Karasuno, and then, suddenly, they lose their best option for a male lead? So now, it was kind of up to Shimazaki to prove that, well, they are capable of going on without him. And no offense, but double that with working with a newcomer, that couldn’t have been too nice on her nerves.”

“So what you are saying is, I have to forgive her and try to work with her after she yelled at me for not being Hirose?”

“I did not say that. In fact, I will say that she needs to apologize to you if this production wants to make it. As for you, you just need to understand why she was acting like that without dismissing the fact that she insulted you. Just think about how much things would have gone for your team if Iwaizumi-san quit weeks before Spring High or something.”

“You sure love to bring Iwa-chan into this.” He was pouting, but he couldn’t care less, “And we lost, anyway.”

“But if you two somehow can work in tandem, maybe the Theatre Club won’t lose.”

“Why do you care so much about Seijou’s theatre club, anyway?”

“Because Karasuno has its stake in it, too.” Suga calmly replied, “Also, I have known Aya, Haruna, and Kouki since middle school.”

“Hirose?”

“Yep, him.”

Time glid by in silence, its hollow filled by the chitter-chatter of other living beings. Suga wanted him to think about things, probably, but… but he can afford a little bit more time for self-pity. At some point, Suga must have picked up on his homework again, if the quiet scratches were any indication. Oikawa rose, too, somewhen after, and continued to work on his own. He did not move back to his old seat, and Suga’s still out-stretched legs made no indication that the other boy would want him to. It was like the previous conversation had never peaked its ugly head to the world— almost so, if Oikawa’s pout and his staunch refusal to lift his head from the table were any of its remnants.

Suga was right, implicit differentiation is very simple once he got a hang of the dy/dx debacle. 

“What are you going to do after high school?”

“What?” They seemed to both be in agreement to not look at each other, but not as if Oikawa would know, sticking his chin to the table as he was, “College, of course. Then, hopefully, get a job. I want to get a degree in Education, if that’s what you are asking.”

“So, a teacher?” Oikawa murmured, “Yeah, must have figured, you somehow taught me math.”

“Not a high school math teacher, unfortunately.” Suga let out a syllable worth of a laugh, “I like little kids, and you know what they say about a good primary education for them. So. Elementary school.”

“So what good is calculus even to you, then? Why are you so good at it…” Oikawa whined, slumping even further upon the table, “That’s so unfair....”

“Well, I think of it as mentally preparing myself for teaching. Of course, you need to actually understand math to teach it, right, but ten years from now, I probably can tell myself that, ‘hey, you survived Rolle’s Theorem, so teaching that kid addition for the tenth time this week isn’t all that horrible’.”

“Is it really that bad?” Oikawa giggled.

“Like all of mathematics, it isn’t much once you finally understand it.” Suga shrugged, “Then, what about you?”

“Volleyball, of course. I’m going anywhere with a worthy coach that would accept me.”

“Any scouts from colleges?”

“A lot.” Oikawa nodded, eyes still glued on his book, as he suspected that Suga was so, “But I already knew who I wanted to coach me.”

“That’s great.” Suga answered, his voice a tilt lighter, “Any clue where he is?”

“... San Juan.” He swallowed, “Argentina.”

“What?” For all it was worth, he did sound more than a little bit startled. “You are going overseas?” A pause. Oikawa would imagine that Suga was repeatedly blinking in disbelief, “Skipping the college leagues?”

“Who knows, I reckon I still have the times to think about it.” He sighed, “But yes, the end goal is to play for him. Even if I have to go overseas.”

“How is your Spanish?”

“... Working on it, actually.”

“Well, I know you are the type to keep playing volleyball into the end of your life, anyway.” Suga sighed, “Sooner or later, you will get there.”

“What about you, are you going to keep playing volleyball?”

“Maybe.” Suga shrugged, “Not as a professional or anything, but I could teach the little kids how to begin, and maybe play here and there with the old folks from Karasuno. There are a lot of ways to be involved."

Oikawa hummed in agreement. When they both finished their work, he supposed they could not ignore each other anymore -- but he didn’t want the silence to catch up before then. Luckily, Suga continued,

“I guess it kind of hard for you to imagine how people can just play volleyball and leave, hm?”

“Well, back then, yes. But I learned. Some people just don’t love the game the same way I do; for them, it was a temporary treat or something like that. Their lives don't depend on volleyball.” _Not like mine does_ , he didn’t say.

“People come and go, I suppose.” Suga seemed to catch onto the ghosts of the words, nonetheless, “Even if I might happen to never touch another volleyball again after high school, I don’t think any of that time past was wasted, though, you know? Things that were born out of the court, things that were born from being in a team and from leading a team… They continued to live, I think.

“Say, you don’t think that volleyball meant nothing for me, don’t you?”

“I said nothing like that!” Oikawa gawked scandalously, and looked over at Suga, only to find out that the ‘don't-look’ spell was broken ages ago, “I just say that, well, your life doesn’t depend on whether or not you get to play volleyball your entire life!”

“Unlike yours, right?” Suga grinned, “And since volleyball held so much meaning to you, in contrast, then, it meant that other people viewed volleyball as nothing more than a simple-minded hobby?”

Oikawa huffed, and dropped his pen, petulantly crossing his arm and leaned backward, “Okay, hypothetically, I did suggest that. What do you want to say, then?”

“Nothing much.” Suga shrugged, “Except that, well, volleyball, theatre, victories and defeats, they don't have to be everything to mean something, don’t they?”

———

From Iwa-chan :3: assikawa, what enemy?

From Iwa-chan :3: what the hell did you do

To Iwa-chan :3: dont worry about it…

From Iwa-chan :3: i swear to god

To Iwa-chan :3: the cute costume designer that i (accidentally) befriended with is mr refreshing from karasuno :(

From Iwa-chan :3: ...

From Iwa-chan :3: goodbye

———

Oikawa told himself that he won’t think about it, but he definitely thought about it.

To be fair, Shimazaki was actually trying to be nicer to him today, so by the law of equivalency, he should have an answer to her question, too, right?

_What do you want from the theatre?_

He didn’t know yet, then, or maybe his mind had yet to string words together for that. But he wanted it to be something. For the new people, for the new meetings, for the new chances — to mean something.

(If at night the ghost of Suga’s eyes lingered in his sleep, it wasn’t related.)

The next rehearsal, Shimazaki tried to be even more civil, perhaps as close to outwardly nice as she could manage. Half of the time was spent on a speed-run of Act One, the shortest of the three, and she never did more than gently mention his mistakes in a hushed voice and, well, actually gave out helpful advice this time. No more micro-aggression in the form of theatre criticism. Soon, Sashihara approved for them to move on to the next Act. The very first scene, in which the de Villette's audienced the Count and Countess of Flanderre, involved an entire ensemble, and they all agreed to spend fifteen minutes to run through the scene on their own. His lines were not that long -- he only entered the stage from the middle, toward the end of the play, and as a guard in the audience of nobles, he had not much to say.

Shimazaki would probably tell him to do something with his face, though. 

From Suga-chan: hey hey hey are you at the theatre right now

To Suga-chan: of course i am. i would never ditch a rehearsal

From Suga-chan: cool cool

From Suga-chan: stay late today

From Suga-chan: you have nothing to do after rehearsal, right? 

From Suga-chan: wasn’t your calculus test today

To Suga-chan: yes it was. so no, i dont have anything to do today.

To Suga-chan: why tho?

From Suga-chan: its a surprise :DDD

From Suga-chan: its also a secret, so just leave with the rest after rehearsal and i will meet you at the gate ;D

“Oikawa! Are you ready?”

“Of course!” 

———

“So, what is this surprise of yours?” Around ten minutes after rehearsal had ended, five chilling minutes bearing the caress of the first wind of spring, Oikawa walked back to the auditorium, Suga by his side.

“You will see,” Suga’s smile seemed a bit sinister and mischievous, then, “after all, it’s a surprise!”

“How would we even get back inside, anyway? Sashihara always locks the door before we leave.”

“A man has his ways,” Suga sighed, his brow raised dramatically, “some of them might or might be within the constraints of conventional etiquette.”

“Did you… steal the key?”

“Not really.”

“Did you… sneak away the key from someone’s bag?”

“Of course not!”

“Did you…” Oikawa shuddered, “beat someone up and steal the keys from their bags?”

“No, Oikawa-kun!” Suga giggled, his silver hair bobbing with the force of his amusement, “I simply asked for a spare key and forgot to return it!”

“What?”

“Uhm hm. It’s easy to do so when your club has an ample supply of spare keys and an errand boy needs to run back and forth for one thing or another; especially when the lighting room has been having a problem of being jammed without reason.”

“They should have not made you an errand boy… Who asked a Karasuno student to be the errand boy at Seijou Theatre Club!”

“People who have the authority, and see me as an asset that I am.” Suga winked, before beginning to hop and twist around like an excited child.

It was a bit endearing, really. But the thrill and trepidation from doing something— well, not necessarily legal— forced Oikawa to concentrate on little but the task at hand. Which meant getting inside the theatre, doing whatever it was that Suga wanted to do, and get out. He didn’t even know whether the securities at Seijou make night-patrols at night, least of all when, if they even do it.

So, wow, the thrill of being discovered. That was fun, he supposed.

“We’re here.” Suga whispered in front of him, his whimsical springs and leaps landed him a few footsteps ahead of Oikawa, “you head forward to the stage, and then you’d see.”

“See what?” 

Suga didn’t answer, but instead walked ahead somewhere in front of him, the flickering automatic light of the theatre showing him the way. Without anything else to focus on, Oikawa begrudgingly walked toward the pedestals.

It was strange, traveling across a place that was normally well-lit, yet now engulfed in muted darkness. It was never as eternally bright and lively as the court, but never quite leaden, either. His footsteps whispered on the carpeted floor; the sound that was once infinitesimal in the companionship of others, now allowed its ghostly breaths to slither the scene. He didn’t trip in the darkness, Oikawa was surprised to find out, the stretch of the staircases had somewhen become a familiar rhythm. He turned his head, spared a glance toward the eerie grace of it all - of a world shrouded in the veil of darkness. A look at what it would be like has the stars and lights it was made for were not here to shine. The maroon cushions, the jet black handle of the seats -- all was discernible in the lack of light, but was there a point in its existence at all?

He looked forward, picked up his pace, feeding the inexplicable urge to do so. The perusal of an invisible audience vanished.

If anything, on the stage, such ghostliness was even more pronounced. All around him was darkness, with the usual overhead lights deep in their slumber. Then…

Then, with a quiet burst, the world blossomed into blinding luminosity.

It was so bright that Oikawa couldn’t help but shielded his eyes from the onslaught of brightness, bewildered as to why Suga decided to do this, what’s the significance of --

“Oikawa-kun, is that bright enough for you?” Suddenly, the other boy’s voice can be heard from all the speakers in the space. So he helped around with the sound department, too, it seemed. “You know, Aya told me that there is always a sacred feeling, the first time you ever performed in a live audience.

“It’s frightening, supposedly. You feel all eyes focused on you. Every move is either a hit or a miss. The quality of the play, the efforts that you put in from the very first rehearsal to then, all coalesced into those footsteps.

“And the lights are blinding. In front of you, there is light. Behind you, on top of you, sometimes even under you, there is light. It felt like your gravity was attracting all that light, and at the same time, you felt that the light would eat into you.

“It’s scary, it’s anxious, but it’s... exhilarating. The way you are the star of the world, the way that light and everything that comes with the stage breathes into you some kind of satisfaction you have never felt before…

“It changed you, that very first moment.”

It was easy to imagine that world, following the melody of Suga's words. When his voice slowly faded from the intercom, so did the image — leave behind the bare skeleton of the theatre tonight, well-lit in its loneliness.

“Well, those were all Aya’s words, of course.” Over the intercom, Suga turned off and pocketed his phone noisily, “But I brought you here because of something you told me yesterday.”

“And what’s that?” He muttered, even if there was no way Suga-chan could hear him.

“Well, remember how you said theatre and volleyball are nothing alike? Here, the court is blinding, too.

“And, one way or another, they both are capable of changing you, as a person.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a comment save an author's life <3


	3. and your lips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 「And then Suga’s fingers moved to his lips. Of course, that was they were supposed to be doing. 
> 
> Not this. Not the scattered pausing, the silence and anticipation chased away by casual banters that were so easy to slip back into; not the way they dance with each other and in their own head; not treading the water and retract their step a millimetre before they made contact- before a ripple could be born and disrupt their tense denial, as still and compliant as a lake. Not pretending.」
> 
> In which dreams were made, rejected, and broken, all within a blink of an eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oisuga nerd out and so did i. thank you wikipedia and britannica for making me the french-belgian border geographical expert that i am today <3 and thanks various blogs that inform me about 18th century french male looks <3 that apwh and aphg credit was almost not worth it <3

“Oikawa-san, I must apologize for my words and actions, the other time. I was very inconsiderate and wrongfully blamed you for things that you have no control over.” Even in her apology, Shimazaki sounded painstakingly straightforward; Oikawa winced internally.

They agreed to stay late again, today, to go over the next few scenes in which the budding infatuation between de Villette and Dusseau would be the focus. At the beginning of Act Two, there will be the afternoon tea with the Countess of Flanderre, in which the acrimony between her and de Villette was highlighted; then the picnic at the riverside – the scene where Dusseau consciously made a decision to save de Villette from falling into the river over the Countess, result in further indignation from the latter. Sashihara could not stop herself from stressing the importance of these scenes throughout the rehearsal, so much that Oikawa briefly thought that she would go mad.

“Shimazaki-san, I won’t say that it was not hurtful, but… I think we can move on from that, now. I understand the tough situation that you faced.” Oikawa sat casually on the wooden floor of the stage, trying to make this as… not awkward as he was feeling

“What?” Shimazaki followed his lead, though her posture was a thousand times more graceful than he could ever have done it.

“Uhm… The whole Hirose situation…?”

“Aya told you?”

“No. Suga-cha— Sugawara-kun told me.”

“Kou-chan?”

“What?”

Silence befell, then broken by a ring of laughter from Shimazaki.

“Sorry, it’s just…” Shimazaki breathed out, the words broken by a fit of giggles, “The way your face just changed like that…” She chuckled a little more, before peeking out from her hands and wiggle her fingers in front of his face in circles, “You should close your mouth first, Oikawa-san, before I explain…”

Oikawa was suddenly made conscious of his gaping face then, and promptly closed his lips, shaking his head a little in an attempt to regain composure, “I’m sorry, what, Kou-chan? You called him Kou-chan?”

“Yes, we did. Kou-chan—, well, Sugawara-kun must have told you that we went to school together, right?” Shimazaki’s shoulder still shook and her face looked like a puffer fish, but at least her words were stable, “You know how we had Hirose Kouki and Sugawara Koushi? So, you know, Kouki and Kou-chan, so that there won’t be any slipping tongue. We heard his sister called him that once, and it stuck.”

Oikawa sputtered a laugh, “And he is okay with that?”

“There were a lot of pouts, at first,” Shimazaki smiled, “but now he loves it.”

Oikawa wondered what would happen if he called Suga-chan by his childhood nickname, the next time they met, “That’s cute. Nice on the tongue. Kou-chan.” He dropped his voice humorously at the name, tasting the syllables on his tongue. It’s really cute. Really nice on the tongue.

Very, very nice on the tongue. Like drops of sweet sake that buzzes and makes his heart goes a little giddy. Like a drop of sugar that made his heart race with child-like excitement.

“Anyway,” Shimazaki cleared her throat, “Now that we have got that out of the way, let’s get going.”

“Right.”

Shimazaki put her script down on the floor, before looking at him, eyes all stony and serious, “Now, Oikawa-kun, in the time that I took to reflect upon my actions, I have also found out the main cause for your shortcomings as an actor.” Oikawa winced; Shimazaki might as well have the word “straightforward” tattooed on her forehead. 

“Right, and that is…?”

“Oikawa-san, you simply have not attuned to Dusseau as closely as you should have.” Shimazaki stated blankly, “And for you to do that, let me ask you this: Who is Alexander Dusseau?”

“Can I… uh… just read it from the script book?”

“Go ahead.”

Oikawa cleared his throat. “Okay. So, Alexander Dusseau… ‘a charismatic young man whose duty as a guard for Mlle. de Villette made him appear as serious and repressed.’” He glanced up, and Shimazaki nodded for him to continue, “‘His time accompanying Mlle. de Villette and her companions unfurled him as a master of literature, despite his commoner's upbringing.’”

“So, outwardly, how would Dusseau appear to the public? To the people at the de Villette’s estate?”

“Serious, repressed, at the estate.” Oikawa shrugged, “But when he was with his friends at the tavern, though, he acted all like… suave and cool. Like, he was definitely trying to show that he is a city boy among a bunch of country bumpkins or something. Also, he is way more relaxed when he is with the other guards, and would get openly grumpy with Phillippe de Castries, his cousin, even though they were at the estate. He seemed… very disdainful of his Parisian friend who came to visit, though.”

“Good. You understand the nuances of Alexander. Remember that when we are on the stage. Who is he with during the scene? How would he act around them? And then mold your gestures and behaviors. Use hints from later scenes to build up an Alexander from your heads, if needed. After all, that is but the same person.”

Oikawa nodded, “So, act stone-faced near the noble, be arrogant near the country bumpkins and the Parisian bumpkin, play nice with the guards, and be yourself only near your relatives?”

“That’s kind of oversimplifying it, but you get the idea. Just remember that external factors can break the mask, sometimes.” Shimazaki replied, “Like with Louise de Villette, she shows the world a holier-than-thou facade, has immaculate manners near the older nobles, but is willing to appear discourteous in front of the Countess of Flanderre to defend Madame du Blois.”

He nodded sagely. This was way more productive than fumbling from one expression to another until someone corrects him, “Is this the fundamental of theatre, or something?”

“You can say so.” Shimazaki let loose a little smile to unfurl on her lips, “Before every play, an actor must understand the story. Then their own character, then the characters that appear with them. That’s how one began to develop the techniques, and the transformation needed to become one character or another. For you, I would speed up that lesson in time for the play to premiere.”

Oikawa swallowed, “Right, but in a nice way.”

Shimazaki blinked, then nod, again. There was a lot of nodding that went on that day, Oikawa realized, “Yes, in a nice way.”

———

Sometimes later, if anyone asked Oikawa to pinpoint where things have changed between them, he wouldn’t have an answer.

Yuri has texted him two days ago, asking if he can clear his schedule for another fitting session. He did (by ditching volleyball practice; the coach would understand… right?). So, here he was, at the same music room where they had met last time. Suga had not arrived yet, and Oikawa realized that he must have been the one to arrange the disarray of a music room that Oikawa had just stumbled in today, for something that resembled neatness the last time. Ever the nice person that he is, Oikawa took the incentive to tidy up the mess of papers and music stand that plastered all across the room, trying to replicate as much of the set up that Suga had arranged before, down to the music stand in front of where Suga would have him stand, the two chairs that stood in line to it, facing each other— up to the navy blue curtain that he could have sworn was half-opened last time, letting the warm honey of sunshine flooded the room in its afternoon cheer. Faraway, the wind trailed in its leaves the faintest aroma of cherry wood.

Then, he sat on the chair and waited. Attempted Suga’s posture — but soon realized that either he didn’t know how to sit in the right way, or Suga’s spine is just that flexible — and when that failed, just rested his back against the chair and propped his feet onto the other one.

He was mindlessly scrolling through Twitter when the door was slammed open. Suga entered, heaves of heavy breaths bent his body over,

“Sorry that I’m late. The bus was delayed.” Suga looked up, eyed Oikawa’s face, and scrunched his brows. Take a look around the room. At the music stands nestled in a corner, a single one standing in the middle of the room, and the chairs— “Did you… seriously arranged the room like how I did last time?”

“Yes, but better.” Oikawa sing-songed, “About time that the hosts arranged the house, really, I don’t even know why you were that early last time.”

“Oh, there was a technical meeting that day, so we were excused from our last class.” Suga leisurely walked toward him, flicking Oikawa’s shoulder to acquire the chair.

“What? You can do that?” He moved away, then, letting Suga drop his bag there and rummage through it for his supply.

“Yeah, as long as you have the club sponsor’s notes.” After a while, Suga fished out his pocket notebook and the same tape measure he had last time. “So, do the male lead know what we are doing today?”

“Maybe.” He definitely did not. “But I would like to hear it from the famed errand boy himself.”

“If you love my voice that much, just say so; no need for extraneous excuses, you flatterer.” Suga smiled coyly, though his raised brow turned the look mischievous. “We’re taking measurements for the gloves today, since Asahi is soooo picky with the colors and the designs. Apparently, all the ones that Seijou or Karasuno already had were either one shade away from being the right one or didn’t fit the time period. So, brand new gloves for Monsieur Dusseau, here. And I think those older ones won’t fit your hand, anyway.”

“Hm? Is that so?”

Suga hummed, “Volleyball hands and all that.”

“Right, right. Volleyball hands and all.”

“Stop being saucy and get over here.” Suga laughed, slapping Oikawa’s arm with his notebook and waved it toward the seat opposite to where Suga’s bag was resting. “We just need to measure your hand this time, so just sit.”

“Sure, Kou-chan~” Oikawa sing-songed, and his smile only turned more impish at the wide-eyed look that Suga seemed to froze into at the nickname, before sitting down with much flair and extraneous gesture — flicking his hair, flinging one knee across the other, and flaunted his hand, fingers curved upward — like a particularly libertine and pretentious noblewoman in the play. It took Suga more than several seconds to recover from the particularly kitsch act.

“What— did Aya—” Broke out of his stupor, Suga kneeled down, taking Oikawa’s hand into his, tape measure resting on the other.

“Nope, it was all Shimazaki.” He popped his lips elvishly, “Is Aya-chan always the tattle-tale in the group or something? Even Shimazaki thought that she was the one who told me about Hirose-kun.”

“No, that’s Kouki, but she is always the more talkative one. And the one you actually talk to.”

“Things like this? Kou-chan, this is the best information that I have ever taken hold of my entire life!”

“Must be a sad little life you have led, then, Northern star.”

“Mean!” Oikawa chopped his untaken hand on Suga’s head, secretly marveled at the downy locks of hairs.

“Ow! You were being mean first!”

“I only called you by your childhood nickname, that wasn’t mean, it’s cute!”

Suga pouted, and when Oikawa was too deep in his gloat to notice, he reached up and slapped Oikawa’s head. He probably deserved it, but protests were needed as a matter of principle.

“What was that for!?”

“For you chopping at my head?”

“A chop! Not a slap! That’s not fair!”

“Your fault for being too tall!”

“How can someone as small as Kou-chan can be so mean!”

“You know what they say,” Suga regained his composure and shrugged, “the evilness is more condensed.”

“Is middle school Kou-chan also this mean? How was someone as mean as Kou-chan can befriend anyone?”

“Oh, you don’t know the faintest clue about how vicious Aya can be. A random kid bullied Haruna back in the day, and Aya totally trashed his desk the next morning. No one can prove that it was her, though everyone knew it.”

“Scary.” Oikawa hissed. When the coolness from the tip of the tape measure brushed his hand, he was made aware that Suga had been working all along, “So, how did all of you meet?”

Suga hummed, noting the circumference of his palm, before continuing, “I was in the same class as Aya, and she introduced Haruna and Kouki to me from the theatre club. After a while, I started to help out, too, on the merit of being their friends, I supposed. But I have always been involved in the volleyball team.”

“Was it fun?” Oikawa left the question at that, letting Suga interpret it on his own.

“Volleyball has always been fun, though I wasn’t that good at it. Barely got to play in official matches until half-way through my second year. Theatre is just something I participated in after the season has ended, I supposed, but doing the lighting and creating the props was fun. One time, the teacher borrowed a wood-making set from a high school’s art class to let us craft new swords.”

“Won’t that be dangerous?” Oikawa would have never let something like that touch his delicate setter fingers, but alas.

“Kind of, you lame safety nerd, but we had strict supervision.” Suga beamed, “It’s all about the adventure! I bet your middle school life was boring.”

“It was not! I went to class, then I played volleyball, and then I…” Suga’s grin widened, and Oikawa just threw his hand up in defeat, “Okay! Sure! I did nothing besides volleyball! I didn’t get to make cool swords. Happy?”

“No, I’m sad. Sad for you.” Suga mockingly frowned, his eyes, shining amidst the sun’s blessing, glinted impishly, “It’s okay, maybe we can ask my middle school teacher to let you try out the swords sometimes soon.”

“Meanie! I will take away all of your middle school friends since you’re so mean!”

“And in return, do I get all of yours?”

“Hah! You will only get Iwa-chan, so I win!” Too late to regret that sentence, now.

“That’s… uhm… tragic. Somehow, I couldn’t imagine your life getting sadder, but here we are.”

It was Oikawa’s turn to pout and attack, but he put no heart into it, letting the hilt of his hand rested gently upon Suga’s head, “Why did you all split ways, anyway? Why not all go to the same school?” He could never imagine not going to the same school as Iwa-chan, back in the day. He knew that they must part — even back then — one day in the future. But not then. Not when they still have the option to retain what they have.

“Haruna and Kouki always wanted to pursue traditional theatre, and they are good at it, so they chose Seijou. Haruna could have gotten into Shiratorizawa with her grades, but she doesn’t like how they approached the arts there.

“I think Aya just liked acting, not particularly theatre, so she chose Karasuno because she liked the camera work from their competition videos. And I, well, I go because of volleyball. But it worked out, right?”

“Quarterfinal at nationals, not bad at all.”

“Not particularly that.” Suga licked his lips, winding the tape around Oikawa’s thumb, “I mean, I didn’t even get to play that much this year, honestly. But I was talking about me, Haruna, Aya, and Kouki. We kept contact and still have conversations in the group chat; that was how I knew that Karasuno and Seijou are gonna have this thing, by the way. We don’t talk as much as before, sure, but it was not like we would disappear out of each other’s lives after middle school.”

“What if… one day, they just stopped talking to you?” Oikawa hated how small his voice became, how vulnerable and breathy it had gotten, but there was nothing he could do about it.

Suga hummed thoughtfully, “I guess I have never thought about it that much… Well, you just have faith that they will return the sentiment, I think? Like, no matter what weird space you’ve been on, if you care about them enough to send a text every once a while, maybe one day they will reach back.

“Don’t do it, like, after the third time that they refused to, though,” Suga laughed lightly, like gentle breezes that beckoned the curtain to dance, “sometimes, things must be let go.”

Oikawa smiled a little before he began to speak — Suga’s inquisitive glances were enough to deliver the unasked question — “I didn’t have many friends in middle school, I guess. I mean, there were volleyball teammates, but not like, friends, the way you guys were. 

“Didn’t help that I always locked myself in the gym, of course. I knew I had a lot of admirers, even then, but it was not like they talked to me or anything. So, I stayed by Iwa-chan’s side. I knew he was capable of making way more friends than that, but he seemed content to spend most of his time with a brat like me.”

“A loveable brat to him.” Suga raised his brow, “Not everyone needs a million friends, though. Sometimes, one is more than enough.”

“Right. But you know, sometimes…”

“If you want, then I’m your friend now, alright? And then there is Aya, Haruna— even Kouki, once he gets enough courage to talk to Haruna again.”

“Was she that mad that he ditched this production?”

Suga hissed, shaking his head a little, and shrugged “Maybe. Maybe very mad.”

Their voices faded out, letting silence and the wind’s whisper dance across the stage, beckoning the thick curtain to grumble in their wake. Outside, the lush greens also offered their own gossips.

Amidst the quietude, the light shifted. Perhaps it was a coincidence, a joke of nature, maybe — when science and logic would write that off as mere clouds sealing away the sun, a brief minute among the unobservable limit of time — but whatever it caused, whatever it demanded to blossom under its wake, it was more than terrene; deserved more than the sublunary. 

Suga’s fingers trailed along his; feather-light, tentative — separated by an infinity of mere millimetres, approaching, yet never arriving. There laid a threadbare barrier they dare not cross: a gap between imagining and yearning. A whispered sense of divinity, sealed from the judgement of light — something deserving to be felt and not seen, to meet and to flee, unrecorded, unbelieved — belong only to a single moment in a human’s lifetime that dare not be desecrated by rendering it concrete.

He dare not breathe, then. Dare not move. Dare not interrupt whatever it was that his heart was telling him, in its muffled panic, like a drum violently exploited but muted by heaven above. It seemed as if he alone was locked in that moment of tenebrosity, because Suga’s hand was still trailing along his, like streams caressing its border… 

They locked eyes, then. The muted blue washed away the bright amber, revealing something darker, deeper — like mud, the type that could be quicksand, consume and consume and letting you drown in it, immovable and helpless, and every beat of panic is another advancement until you are nothing but loss in it, forever—

—Or maybe like a dark night, the type belongs to a world untouched. The type that was still blessed with stars and galaxy, constellations winked at him until he was mesmerized, and kept frozen in time.

Something that is lost, in time. 

Blink, and it would leave. Defiled.

How long could they keep this up, he wondered?

_(What would happen if he let his hands wander? His lips?)_

As suddenly as it left, the sun returned, a graceful arch from night to light. The world woke up. An hour and a half had passed from the beginning of their sessions, and the shadow only lingered for a negligible fraction of that time. The world shifted, as it always does, and the fragile entanglement was broken.

Suga breathed, turning his eyes away for a second to stare at the fluttering curtain, and then continued on his work. Oikawa blinked, then let the silence continue. Try to engrave that brief darkness in his thoughts.

For one Oikawa Tooru, that spring was forever drowned in blue.

———

For one Sugawara Koushi, that spring was the standstill from a harbor to a boat. The hesitation one felt before lifting one’s shaking feet against the teasing of the waves.

That spring was looking back, beckoned by a single whisper, something clandestine and indistinct, clamorous only for his heart to hear. Something akin to the particularity of radio frequencies. 

That spring was knowing if you looked back, there would be another pair of brown eyes, something deeper than amber; ones that were gemstones: shone with the vigor from being refined. Resided there was a heart that desires. It desires as its life depends on it, insatiable and zealous, like the ingurgitating heat of summer; like a fire in the deep brown of refined andalusite, that forces you to look at and never away.

That spring was a breath that lingers, an existence so tentative and full of hesitations, words said and unsaid, glances faced and pretended not to see, a tango between acknowledged and buried into the sand something that could have been. 

That spring was indecision.

The boat was almost here, now. A few more steps before he would be leaving, before Oikawa would be leaving, and wherever they would end up, that would not be beside each other. 

Should he ever look back, at all? Should he allow it to bloom, knowing that cruel fate would crush its breath into dissipating air sooner or later?

They would not survive the passage of time, he knew. Not something as fragile and budding as this. Sooner or later, things would come to an end. An even shorter time was given to the beautiful, he knew. Just another thing soon buried under, lovingly called memories— a thing to look back and yearn, but never to replicate. Unrepeatable; that was what made them precious.

That made them agonizing.

He knew this, knew that high school and the life before it would soon come to an end. That everything would be painful once he looked back at it, love and fun turned into longing and aching.

Should he taint this bud with the poison of time, then?

It would be easier if it had never been allowed to live in the first place.

——— 

_EXT. THE GARDEN - AFTERNOON_

_Mlle. de Villette sits underneath a blossoming tree, leisurely reading a book on her hand._

_BIRDS ARE SINGING WITHIN THE TREE. THEY SHAKE._

_A flower falls from the green lushes above, landing in the middle of the pages. She is startled but takes her time admiring the blossoms, seemingly lost in thought._

_SOMEONE WAS APPROACHING, THEIR STEPS MUTED BY THE GRASS._

_Dusseau enters the garden and bows._

_…._

_MLLE. DE VILLETTE_

_Now, say… M. Dusseau, what do you_

_think of the people who fall in love?_

_DUSSEAU_

_Mankind called them lovers, and I call_

_them the inevitable. Love comes and_

_goes, I suppose, and man ought not_

_to interfere._

_MLLE. DE VILLETTE_

_Man interfered with the land and_

_thrived. Such is farming. Man_

_interfered with the woods. Such is_

_lumbering. Man interfered with love,_

_they might live and thrive._

_DUSSEAU_

_Exploitive farming robbed the land._

_For one season, men lost hundreds._

_Excessive lumbering killed the forests._

_For one lodging, villages were flooded._

_MLLE. DE VILLETTE_

_And yet, no farming, no lumber, the_

_men have never been born. It is of_

_caution that we proceed, not inaction._

_DUSSEAU_

_What whims brought you such reverie,_

_mademoiselle?_

_MLLE. DE VILLETTE_

_(read)_

_“Love is poison, one I willingly taste_

_only for a kiss from your lips, albeit a dream,_

_only for a whisper from your voice, albeit a mirage,_

_albeit a dying man’s wish, I longed to see you.”_

_DUSSEAU_

_Love kills, I supposed._

_MLLE. DE VILLETTE_

_And lovers are fools._

_DUSSEAU  
Sooner or later, men must return_

_to the embrace of nothingness._

_Perhaps love would make it sweeter._

_MLLE. DE VILLETTE_

_And what of love do you know?_

_(tentatively)_

_How were… the ladies of Paris?_

_DUSSEAU  
Mere grisettes, I am afraid, that I had_

_been in the company of. The ladies of_

_Paris never lingers on our street._

_MLLE. DE VILLETTE_

_Had you not been a guard?_

_DUSSEAU  
Not until Ardennes, mademoiselle._

_MLLE. DE VILLETTE_

_(curious)_

_What was your craft, in Paris?_

_DUSSEAU_

_A student, mademoiselle, due to be_

_a lawyer._

_MLLE. DE VILLETTE_

_(confused)_

_Why did you stop, then?_

_DUSSEAU_

_(glances around, bows lower and speak in a low voice)_

_The troubles at the capital, mademoiselle._

_MLLE. DE VILLETTE_

_(leans forward)_

_The Estates were meant to be summoned_

_soon, aren’t they?_

_DUSSEAU_

_(walks toward Mlle. de Villette)_

_And two of them are wolves in a pack._

_The meeting is, in fact, in three weeks._

_Mademoiselle, it is not in good fashion to_

_talk about the ailment of Paris._

_MLLE. DE VILLETTE_

_(glances down)_

_And for such trouble, I am due for Belgium._

_It is not as if blood stays at the heart._

_(look up, stares at Dusseau)_

_Speak, what trouble had pushed you to_

_the distant Ardennes?_

_DUSSEAU  
(bows down; take the flowers and place it behind_

_Mlle. de Villette’s ear and leans forward)_

_They are hunting down the Third Estate._

  
“Tooru! Lean in a little more! You are talking to her ears, not her face!”

He definitely did not shriek in surprise; of course not. He did, however, straighten up momentarily, and lean in a little more… His mouth near Shimazaki’s — Haruna, now — ears, just shy of contact.

“Yes, like that!”

“That hurts my back, though!” Oikawa leaned away and yelled back.

“Then kneel instead of bow! That’s your own problem for being too tall!” Sashihara’s megaphone, he decided, was way too powerful to compete against, “That’s it for today! Thank you, everyone!”

That was quickly followed by a cheer and a clamor of theatre kids too eager to leave after hours of rehearsal. Oikawa looked back at Haruna, and she nodded. Another night of staying late. Sashihara had given Haruna the director’s key since last week.

“Why don’t they just give you one from the beginning, anyway?”

“There are only three copies, I think. One for the director, one that is kept at the club room, and one for the tech teams. Besides, they don’t want to give the leads any ‘special treatments’.”

… Oikawa wondered if Suga had ever returned that key.

Oikawa wondered if he had thought about Suga too much, these days.

Oikawa also wondered if that matters at all, and decided that it wasn’t.

That thought washed over him like ocean waves crashing on a cliff, violent, rhythmic yet sudden, something inflicted upon by another source — understandable but unexpectable. Like the blues that washed them that day. Was it the curtain? Was it the sky?

Was it… imaginary?

_(What if none of it were real?)_

“-again, since we don’t know how that would look.” His reverie faded out, and Oikawa belatedly realized that he had missed whatever Haruna wanted to tell him in the last few minutes.

“Sorry, what?”

“We should run through the last bit again, the part when you kneel instead of bow. Sashihara didn’t let us redo it.”

“Alright.” Oikawa nodded, “You lead the way.”

Haruna flipped through the page, and looked up, her face seamlessly slipping on the silky mask of Louise de Villette, “How were.. the ladies of Paris?”

——— 

“Tooru, I thought we are all on board that the romantic connotations started at Act Two, Scene One.” And that they were on Act Two, Scene Six, was unsaid.

“That is a very clinical way to say it, but yes, we did agree.” 

“So why is Alexander acting so stiff and impersonal toward Louise?”

What?

At Oikawa’s transparent confusion, Haruna continued, “Your voice was too flat at the discussion of love. Sounds more… bemused, or riled up, when you talk about exploitive farming, and more curious when asks Louise about her thoughts. Look down to the flower, follow her hand movement when she is toying with it. You always stare into her eyes, and it looks too artificial. Move your body, subtly, to make it look like you are observing her.” She glanced up, seeing Oikawa diligently took notes, and she paused; waited for him to look up, to stare at her; made sure that he was paying attention. “And when you lean down for the flower, fool the audience into thinking we were going to kiss.”

“What?” He nearly shouted, unable to rein the embarrassment in.

“Alexander approached Louise and leaned down near her face. If that didn’t imply that they were going to kiss, what is?” Haruna grunted, “You know that there is no kissing, but the point of it is to toy with the audience.”

“That sounds evil.”

“Maybe, but it rides on the anticipation and emotion.” Haruna calmly answered, as if she had anticipated the comment all along, “That’s the point of a satisfactory ending.”

“So… what do I need to do?”

“Make your steps appear leisurely, but strain your shoulders a little.” Haruna stood up as if to make an example of it herself, “Let it be known that something… exciting, something that provokes trepidation, is going to happen.

“And when you lean in,” Haruna turned around, assumed the position of Alexander Dusseau, and leaned toward an imaginary Louise de Villette, “Lean toward her face, close in, like you are aiming for her lips. Then look down toward the flower. Move naturally, but pause and keep looking down while de Villette is talking.” Tooru took that time to walk around, his back to the invisible audience out there. Haruna — Dusseau — continues, “Pick the flowers up, swift, but not hasty, as if you are indecisive upon your next move.” She picked the flower up, resting upon the knee of a wooden ghost, “And gently, very gently, use your ring finger to veers her hair away. Then, tuck the flower behind her ears. When you say the last line, look a little sad, but also be patronizing. You were a man of the bourgeois class of Paris, and she is a pampered lady from the countryside. Lean your head to the side a little, but keep eye contact. This is a moment where that matters.”

Haruna turned toward him, then, and did not wait for him to finish writing.

“This is the moment where the lies fall apart.”

“Oh.”

“Do you think you can do it?” Haruna asked, her voice soft, yet stern. She was giving him an opt-out option, but the note of tentativeness in her voice somehow also drowned it.

“I mean… Sure. But it’s a little bit weird, you know, to stare at you and do things like that.”

“Then pretend. Pretend that I’m someone else. That’s what I do, sometimes.”

Oikawa looked up, and staring into him is a carefully crafted mask, neutral and blank. A demonstration of sorts.

“You are not Oikawa Tooru falling in love with Shimazaki Haruna. You are Alexander Dusseau falling in love with Louise de Villette.” Haruna exhaled, “On this stage, pretend is our sport.”

———

“So, is this just another errand boy thing, or are you secretly terminating all the staff members just to stalk me?”

“First of all, it’s not stalking if I’m standing right in front of you right now,” Suga didn’t turn to look at him while rummaging through his bag — a different one, this time, staunchly square and heavy-looking — and Oikawa, strangely, didn’t want him to, either. “Second of all, no, this is not an errand boy thing. By the way, you lose.” When Suga finally turned, it was with a grin. Bright as the burn of fluorescence into his eyes.

Somehow, it felt less appropriate, with the oppressing suspense between them and the scorching humidity of the makeup room, to compare Suga to something that belongs to a sunny day.

“What? Lose what?”

“You didn’t figure out my ‘main job’ in time.” Suga smirked, his hand wiggling in the air, “Well, here we go.”

“You are… my make-up artist?”

“Not yours specifically, Northern star, but yes, I’m one of the make-up artists.” Somehow, the more Suga smiled and laughed and joked, the more Oikawa _burned_ , “It’s nothing too complicated, this time, but a large cast is involved for the ballroom, so, you know. Lots of make-up artists.”

“Can’t the background characters just do it themselves?”

“I think they are supposed to, but that still leaves five characters that need their make-up touched up and done in the span of like, five minutes, taking into accounts the costume changes. Kind of an inconvenience that they put the tailoring scene right before the ballroom, honestly, but at least there is an intermission in-between.”

Oikawa hummed, with not much else to say without being included in the former scene himself. He knows what it is about, however, more so than the other scenes that he was not presented in, if only because Sashihara demanded only sheer perfection from Aya and Haruna in it. In the scene, Amelie and Louise were discussing the latter’s marriage while she was being fitted into her wedding dress— their lines coded and clandestine in the company of others, thus most of the acting laid in subtle movements and intonation more than anything.

There were things he wanted to talk about, something other than the play, other than the blight of Louise de Villette or Alexander Dusseau, other than the fact that again and again, against or in accordance with his wishes, Suga was here. In his life. In volleyball. In theatre. Like a prolonged finale of a symphony, blithe woodwinds ringing over and over in his ear that its mirth became a headache. 

Oikawa wanted it to stop. But he also didn’t, at the same time, afraid of whatever unknown he would lose and whatever else he would be forced to acknowledge. Afraid of the silence that will let denial wilt and something else to sing in its wake. Afraid of the immediate wishfulness once the music is forever gone — of longing for blissful ignorance.

The sweet movement of denial continued.

“Tell me what you are doing,” Oikawa uttered, less of a question than a plea. “I need to keep still so that you can work, anyway.”

“Sure.” Suga was caught off guard, his face frozen for a second too long, but he obliged. Oikawa wondered if he knew what Oikawa was doing. His hand was steady, still, and out of his reverie, Oikawa can feel the gentle brushwork and the dampness of foundation on his skin. “In eighteenth-century Europe, pale skin, the palest of pale, was favored. They meant to separate the idle nobles from the sun-bearing peasants out there.

“Funny how pompous nobles everywhere shared the same view.” Suga mockingly exhaled, “Also, they tried to bleach out smallpox scars. So, there was that.” Suga tilted his chin up, putting the foundation powder on top of the liquid one, spreading it underneath and to his neck, “And, they mixed lead into the foundation, knowing full well what lead poisoning is capable of, but nonetheless kneeled over for its… what did they say, opaqueness? You should be grateful that it is now the twenty-first century.”

If Oikawa wanted Suga to talk to ignore the tickling of the brush, then that had failed, because he was squirming the moment the brush touched the side of his neck, feeling every bit of pressure and caress from Suga’s hand. He thought he could hide it, but then Suga stopped talking.

“Hey, male lead… say… are you ticklish?”

“No…”

Suga flicked his brush against the same spot, and Oikawa expectedly squirmed, again, shoulder hunched up in (useless) defense of his sensitive skin. That cursed reflex didn’t help at all, because the soft bristles just began to stroke against his neck more rapidly; Oikawa twisted his neck to avoid the attacks and only then discovered that Suga’s hand was shaking with muffled laughter.

“It’s not funny!”

“It is! You look like a turtle!”

“What… No! Take that back!”

“Turtle-kawa! Hey, that works!”

“Kou-chan, you are being so mean!”

“Okay! Game over!” With that said, Suga grabbed his chin back with one hand, the other wiggling the brush in warning

“You only said that because I pulled out the Kou-chan card.” Oikawa pouted but subjected his neck to being attacked, yet again.

“I will go over them just lightly, next time.” Suga compromised, effectively switching the topic “The suits will cover most of your neck, anyway. But then, we definitely have to touch it up in the tavern scene.”

“If you would just let me do it myself, or use literally anything other than a brush, I think I would be fine.”

Suga placed the brush on the counter behind and tapped his fingers against the compact. “I’d rather you not go on stage with foundation all over your hand.” 

“You sounded like my mom— eeck!” Oikawa shrieked, as Suga slapped his cold hand onto his neck.

Suga grinned, elected not to reply, and instead worked his way around Oikawa’s neck. True to his words, Oikawa seemed to be less squeamish and relaxed into Suga’s touch. He made a quick work of it, then, lathering the powder around the neck, filled out a little crescent beneath the collarbone, right at the edge of his gym shirt, occasionally tapping the compact for more powder. The pressures from Suga’s hand left his skin tingling in its path. It was not light, not the caress of the ghosts in a blue afternoon, and was neither painful. If he allowed himself to be fooled by his own heart, Oikawa would believe that there was not a layer of powder coating Suga’s touch. That the touch meant more than methodical. 

It was at that moment that the realization hit — why the finale has yet to cease, why the minuet of denials still sing — he didn’t want the hope to end. The hope that any of their touches have meanings, the hope that hiding somewhere — maybe in that brief moment where the touch ghosts over the same part more than twice, maybe in that second where Suga’s breathe fluttered — was a secret message passed. He was a child tirelessly looking for a key displaced, as if by sheer determination would it reappear, nevermind the minutes stretched into gummed hours and the tensions that suffocated his lungs. He would rather fight tooth and nail for that hope to remain, to dig the slowed motions for a hint as hazy as a ghost than to give in to despair.

To rejection.

The small clink of the compact touching the counter brought him back, then, and Suga was already rustling his bag again for something else. 

In that pause, he let his mind absorb the sound of everyone milling around them, a peaceful background of talk, laughter, and the shifting and moving of equipment and dresses. Today was one of the days that the techs and the cast were intentionally scheduled together; they will have more of those later, when staging and equipment test would be in place, and the effects were added, a few sessions for testing and trouble-shooting before the official dress rehearsals. They were going to set up the scenery, he absentmindedly thought, listening to the rustles of winds patting on plastics and the squeaky frictions of wheels on the wooden floor. They should have that oiled before the premiere, he thought.

“They should have that oiled soon.” Oikawa startled. When he turned back, Suga was holding another brush and another compact of flushed pink powder on his hand, “We won’t want any noise like that on the premiere. Lean forward a little bit.”

Oikawa hummed. He kept still, as Suga leaned closer, one arm resting on top of his on the armrest, the other coating his cheek with the pink powder. He kept his eyes open, this time, knowing that the brush won’t stray anywhere too close to his eyes. 

Suga’s eyes didn’t meet his but stayed focused on his cheek instead. From this distance, he can feel every little movement from the other boy and that made him hyper-aware of his own. Like the way Suga’s chest moved in rhythm to his breath, the latter caressing Oikawa’s face. Like the way his other arm shifted, still pressing upon Oikawa’s own, every time Suga went for a little more powder. Like the way Oikawa’s breath slowly became rhythmic to the calm beat of Suga’s, and the way his own hand became a bit more clammy when Suga’s wrist became heavier with pressure. The light overheads painted haloes into honeyed eyes, and his breath hitch a little, stuck somewhere inside his throat.

“Do you want me to keep talking?” Suga asked, voice softened from concentration. He didn’t wait for a response, “Nothing too interesting about rouged cheeks, though, unless you want to get into vermillion and other millions of strange ingredients they stuffed in there.

“You know, the thing about doing this kind of make-up is that it would look ridiculous if we go overboard, even just a little. Maybe it won’t be that noticeable from afar, but if you look in closely, it would really be annoying.” Suga exhaled, spreading the rouge around his cheeks, then leaned in closer to reach the side of his nose, “Some of it was the foundation being too cakey, but most of the time it was the rouge being overboard. So, you have to blend it a lot, especially around the edges.” With a final tap that deemed his left side satisfactory, Suga walked over to his right, repeating the motions. 

“Honestly, after this, I can’t wait for you to get the wigs on.” Suga giggled, and their eyes met for a brief second, “You won’t need it for the entire time, or so I am told, but you are going to go full-noble for the ball. Can’t really blame them for not recognizing the mysterious Monsieur de Taillefer as Dusseau, honestly.” 

Then, Suga leaned back. The arm that had been resting on him suddenly lifted, leaving its warmth and phantasmal weight lingering. His eyes still aimed at Oikawa’s face left and right, brows raised then scrunched. Before long, Suga’s arm reached for him again, the cool tip of his thumb gently nudging Oikawa’s chin from side to side, eyes still straitened in intense scrutiny of his own works. Oikawa tried to keep eye contact the entire time, but Suga didn’t linger anywhere but his rouged cheeks. He leaned in again, closer than needed if he could just ask Oikawa to tilt ahead, but alas, he didn’t mind. Without retracting the finger that rested on his chin, and thus without drawing on anymore rouge, the makeup artist airily grazed the bristles over his cheeks one last time, before deemed the work satisfactory.

In the mirror, Oikawa didn’t see any change to drastic nor overtly theatricals. Maybe that was the point. Subtle changes and quiet transformation that make a romance covert.

_And fleeting._

_(In Alexander Dusseau and Louise de Villette’s case, of course.)_

“Why don’t you just tell me where to move instead of spinning my pretty face all around, hm?” Oikawa teased. In front of him, Suga was holding several tubes of lipsticks on his hand, still deciding on which one to use. When he looked up, it was with a playful look of his own.

“Oh, is the ever-glorious Northern star wary of mere mortal touch? Why, I just want to assist a bulky ball of gas in moving around a little, is that so bad of me?”

“Shut up, you nerd.” Oikawa giggled. _No, don’t shut up, ever,_ his brain secretly injected, “Every thousand of years, we shifted away from your sight, so it’s not like we need any help moving around.”

“And how much of it were the expansion of the universe and the tilt of the Earth?” Suga looked up in between one bottle to another, and smirked, “I rest my case.”

“Even the Sun wiggles around, centering around a central pit of mass within it.” Oikawa leisurely said, leaning back and throwing his arms out dramatically, punctured every word next with ridicule, “ _I rest my case._ ”

“And who is the nerd around here?” Suga laughed, only one tube remained on his hand, “This would be easier if you lean back and let me in your personal space, Monsieur Dusseau.”

“Not de Taillefer?”

“Not yet.” Suga smiled.

Oikawa exhaled and leaned back against his seat, as asked. The backrest was straight, unadjustable, the kind of office chair that he was pretty sure they were going to throw away, but salvaged by the Engineering Club. It was plush, though covered in peeled and scratched-up leather. Suga was leaning forward, standing at the front of the chair, not from the sides like before. Maybe it was because of the lips. Maybe he just wanted to.

Oikawa could always twist his head to one side, but it wasn’t as if Suga would start to ask now.

Not that Oikawa ever minded any of it, in the first place.

“You could rest on the chair to lean forward, you know.” Oikawa breathed. An invitation.

“If you don’t mind.” Suga shrugged, his voice stuck somewhere in his larynx. Time tentatively walked by them, something like diffidence shrouded the airs, making their heads turned and their eyes untouched. But Oikawa felt it, the dip of the cushion just beside his left knee, and the weight Suga’s hand pressed beside his elbow, at the junction between the backrest and the arm handle. 

He looked, then. Feeling exposed and vulnerable, with Suga’s face a breath away from his, a clenched fist weighed against his arm. It felt like a glitch in the universe, somehow — an oscillation between existing and not existing, between denial and conviction, between what is seen and what is unseeable. It all existed there, at that moment.

All that he saw was washed in blue, yet again.

_(Was it a dream? Or was it a shadow?)_

There was no one there, in the almost-vacant makeup room, with the bright overhead lights and their occasional hissing. There was no sound there, except the constant murmur outside of that narrow doorway and the footsteps above, occasional and timed, like the indolent scarcity of nobles. There was nothing in between them…

And then Suga’s fingers moved to his lips. Of course, that was they were supposed to be doing. 

Not this. Not the scattered pausing, the silence and anticipation chased away by casual banters that were so easy to slip back into; not the way they dance with each other and in their own head; not treading the water and retract their step a millimetre before they made contact- before a ripple could be born and disrupt their tense denial, as still and compliant as a lake. Not pretending.

Suga’s fingers were still on his lips. They were warm and cold at the same time, and Oikawa could not tell whether it is real or an illusion made up by the halo in his eyes.

They should not be doing this. 

“Are we done pretending?” Oikawa whispered, his moving lips jostled the reverie under Suga’s fingertips, “We’re not on stage. We never were.”

“Oikawa? Suga? Are you guys nearly done?” Out of the doorway, someone asked. “Sashihara will want Oikawa to be onstage, soon.”

Monsieur de Taillefer entered the stage without his lipsticks. If Mademoiselle de Villette noticed, she didn’t comment on it.

———

“Is there anything going on between you and Kou-chan?” Haruna asked, two afternoons after that day, eyes not looking up from the scripts that they were practicing on. The next rehearsal will be an off-book one for the entirety of Act Three, then comes a series of technical rehearsals before the dress rehearsal, followed by the opening night.

“No, not really,” Oikawa replied, a weak sentence that weighed as much as air.

Haruna hummed non-committedly and flipped a page.

A few minutes pass, and another.

And another.

They still haven’t practiced any scenes yet, ever since Sashihara announced the end of the actual rehearsal. Haruna seemed to be uninterested in any progress, anyway, at least until he started talking.

“What do you want to know?” He sighed in defeat.

“Just whatever the general situation is between you and my middle school best friend.” Haruna glanced up at him for a brief moment, if only to raise her eyebrow in scrutiny, “People talked, you know.”

“Is that your concern? The people talking?”

“You know very well that it is not.”

Oikawa sighed, “Can we get to the actual practice, please?”

“If you so much wished.” _It’s not over yet,_ her eyes promised, “Your lead, Monsieur Dusseau.”

“Let’s start at line 167.”

_INT. THE BALLROOM - NIGHT_

_…_

_DUSSEAU/ DE TAILLEFER_

_Would you like to leave?_

_MLLE. DE VILLETTE_

_Where to?_

_DUSSEAU/ DE TAILLEFER_

_The Northern Bridge, perhaps._

_MLLE. DE VILLETTE_

_Northwest, toward the border?_

_DUSSEAU/ DE TAILLEFER_

_(nods)_

_Toward the border._

_MLLE. DE VILLETTE_

_We depart from there, tomorrow at noon._

_DUSSEAU/ DE TAILLEFER_

_So it is fitting that you do not waste_

_daytime tomorrow for sight-seeing._

_MLLE. DE VILLETTE_

_The people may notice._

_DUSSEAU/ DE TAILLEFER_

_Well, Madame du Blois has_

_tricks on her sleeves._

_(pauses)_

_We must depart separately. I will see_

_you at the stable in ten minutes._

_MUSIC CHANGES._

_Dusseau nods and dances away. Mlle. de Villette pauses, before accepting the invitation of another noble, Monsieur de Noailles._

_…._

_EXT. THE NORTHERN BRIDGE - NIGHT_

_Mlle. de Villette and Monsieur Dusseau walk toward the riverbank. They pause near the bridge._

_THE WIND HOWLS. THEIR CARRIAGE CLOPS AWAY._

_DUSSEAU_

_He will be back in an hour._

_MLLE. DE VILLETTE_

_I didn’t know you are that_

_close to de Castries. So much_

_that… he helped you with this._

_DUSSEAU_

_He is my cousin,_

_mademoiselle._

_MLLE. DE VILLETTE_

_Ah, I see._

_Silence. They both are at loss for words, yet aware of the limited time passing by._

_MLLE. DE VILLETTE_

_(turns her heads around,_

_seemingly looking for_

_something)_

_DUSSEAU_

_(stands still, look_

_toward the curtains)_

_MLLE. DE VILLETTE_

_(points out of the stage,_

_toward the right)_

_That’s northwest, right?_

_DUSSEAU_

_(turn to that direction)_

_Yes, it is._

_MLLE. DE VILLETTE_

_Northwest from here is La_

_Meuse river. We will go north,_

_following the riverbank. Then, we_

_would cross the river at the border,_

_toward Heer. After that, we head_

_west, until we arrive at Le Roeulx._

_DUSSEAU_

_Would it not be faster to just head_

_west, and cross the river here?_

_MLLE. DE VILLETTE_

_The first point of contact is at_

_Heer. The families had histories there._

_DUSSEAU_

_Seems ostentatious._

_MLLE. DE VILLETTE_

_Perhaps. But that is why this_

_union exists in the first place._

_DUSSEAU_

_(hummed)_

_In the little time I’ve spent here_

_at Ardennes… I’ve heard that they_

_called this area the Garden of Farewell._

…. 

“You know… I figured that you would be better at this.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You understand the text and the characters, Tooru.” Haruna huffed, breaking the character and flopped down the wooden floor, “But, do you understand Dusseau at that particular moment?”

Oikawa shrugged, “de Villette is leaving, soon,” he was looking at anything else but Haruna, toying with the edge of the paper, something hot like frustration bubbled in his chest, “and they were about to have a moment. Of course, Dusseau is sad, but he made his decision.”

“I don’t know if you are just emotionally unintelligent or you are just having a bad case of self-repression.”

Oikawa sighed, “I guess today is just a bad day. Let’s try it again tomorrow, it’s getting late.”

He dropped his book, one arm pushing against the floor to stand up, but Haruna made no indication that the practice is over, “Do you want me to be honest?”

He immediately flopped down and sighed, “Sure.”

“If ‘tomorrow’ means ‘whenever I get my act down and pretend like nothing has happened between Kou-chan and me’, then tomorrow won’t be productive, either.”

“That’s not nice, you know.” He wanted to be angry, he wanted to lash out, but he couldn’t muster the strength to do so. It would help if Haruna could be more venomous than this.

“It’s not nice, but it’s honest. You agreed to it.”

Oikawa sighed in defeat, not knowing what to say. He would rather that Haruna talk, “How did you know about it?”

“I observe.”

“Observe what?” Oikawa huffed a bitter laugh, “Just say it, I won’t call you a stalker.”

“How close you guys were, that time you two talked when the auditorium schedule conflicted. People commented on how long you two took in the make-up test. And Kou-chan is acting weird, too.”

“Weird, how?”

Haruna smiled, eyeing the hopeful spark in his tone, “More cheerful than usual, and less frequent messages. Like he is mustering up the strength to be happy.”

“You sure know a lot about him.”

“Three years of going to school together helped, and I have informants.”

“That’s… wow.”

“That’s why I said that you can be better at portraying Dusseau in this moment, and I could spell it out for you word-by-word why, if you are so keen on denying yourself the truth.” Haruna stood up, looming over him, “And I can’t guarantee that it would not hurt.”

Oikawa sighed. Haruna did not seem to be in a hurry, so no reason to rush it. 

He thought that he knew, deep down, what Dusseau was feeling then. What he was feeling, rather, that day, when the remnant of a blue afternoon and a fingertip that weighed like a universe perched on his lips and gave birth to a spell there. A spell that would have broken a curse, perhaps, if curses taste like daydreams.

(If the curse was aimless hope and baseless affection. If the curse was ringing denial and wavering fear. If the curse was believing that the signs were there, in every hesitating touch and terse eye-contact. If the curse was the effort strained to find the them— the hidden gleam, the meaning of his touch.

If the curse tasted like honeyed sunshine and breathless like a flower has bloomed inside his chest, pressing against all corners of his innards.)

Before the spell, the curse bred longing. The curse bred fear. A brief second of defeat and the aroma of wilting flowers, and a reminiscence of a story that has yet to end. It bred readiness for a rejection that he convinced himself that it would come; it pressed down the hope that wailed otherwise, and that made stone out of his heart and iron of his lungs. It weighed down his spine, making him restless and tired, desolated, just by sitting and bearing its weight. It gave birth to the knowledge that once he let the spell breathe, all would begone. He would be free. And it sowed grief in the face of the cure — grief for all the hopes and the feelings, all those whispered daydreams and tittered reality, happy and woe as they were — for a brief infatuation that seemed so magical.

That was where Dusseau was as of this moment. He ought not to outpace himself.

(It was liberating, that moment, getting the words out; but it was also deflating… Like all strains and courage and fear flooded out, leaving nothing behind. His lung was free of trammel, free for other things to flow in and fill him whole again. But there was nothing to return. Nothing but the silence.

Was it by coincidence or intent?)

Haruna sat down again, side-by-side rather than face-to-face. If there was anything that they have in common, it was the regard for one Sugawara Koushi, different may those regards be.

“Just channel what you have as Tooru into Dusseau,” Haruna said, calmly, “There are… those moments in theatre, where all the resources you have are within yourself.

“You understand it, right? To give and to know that you will never receive.”

———

That night, when he passed by the volleyball court, the light was still on.

His curiosity bested the weariness in his bones, and he decided to investigate. It was nearly 7:00 pm by the time Haruna and he ended the practice — early for their usual schedule, granted — but beside himself, Oikawa didn’t expect anyone else in the volleyball team to stay until this hour.

The resonating slams on the wood were more than telling, but he has yet to reason on who would have stayed this late. Matsukawa and Hanamaki only stayed late with him during the season, and had no reason to start now after all three years. Iwa-chan wouldn’t be able to practice his spikes without a setter, and it didn’t sound like there were two people there. And the only other person who has a key beside him and Iwa-chan was—

—Yahaba. Right, that was Yahaba inside.

The second-year setter, and incoming captain, was the only person who occupied the court at this hour. At the sudden creak of the door, he paused mid-jump. The ball made a desolated bump on the floor as he landed and stared right into Oikawa’s face.

“Oikawa-san?”

“Staying late today, captain?” Before Yahaba could mutter anything more, he entered the gym, and stood by the sidelines, observing the space. It was only Yahaba there standing at the serving area, a cart half-full of volleyball a few metres off to the side. Across the courts, the other half rolled and stilled on the polished floor, some were within bounds, some were not, though he couldn’t tell from the distances whether they were misses or a score that rolled away. “Serving practices?”

“It’s one of my weak points,” Yahaba breathed, pulling the front of his shirts, “among other things. And we won’t have your serves next year either, captain.”

Oikawa hummed, “What types of serves?” He smiled softly, moving closer until he is parallel to the other setter from the sideline. “And for the record, if you are already worrying about when I’m no longer here, I think it’s appropriate that you’re the captain now out of us, Yahaba.”

“Right…” Yahaba stilted, for a moment, “I’m practicing my jump serves, Oikawa-san.”

“You were already decent in those,” Oikawa nodded, recalling any other times he had seen his underclassman perform the movement, “Maybe a little lacking in power, but you got good aims. Keep practicing, though; just pretend that I’m not here.”

Yahaba blinked, then nodded. Perhaps just asking for him to pretend that his almost-former captain, his senior, and the team’s serving arsenal was not here was not enough to calm his nerves, because his movements seemed stiff and overly self-conscious until the frustration of mediocre serves knocked him into the gears. After several balls, Oikawa might as well have never stepped foot inside in the first place. 

“Your run-up is a bit inconsistent.” Oikawa called out when Yahaba was reaching for another ball, “The one just before the last one you did was perfect. So count your pace.”

Yahaba nodded at him, then turned toward the court and exhaled, before attempting it again.

“Nope, not yet.”

The ball slammed down the court, but not as hard as it could be.

“No, too slow!”

The serve landed mid-way of the opposite court, right where a player could bump it easily.

“That’s too much!”

Out of bound.

“Put more strength in when you jump!”

…..

“Yes! That was perfect!”

The ball landed with a violent boom, inching its way toward the white-bound, then immediately bounced away. Even from his view, Oikawa had no doubt that it landed beautifully. He continued, “That run-up was perfect.” Yahaba nodded, pulling up his shirt to wipe the sweat that pooled at his forehead, “Remember how that run felt, and keeps going at it until your movement is consistent.”

“Right,” Yahaba nodded, his chest puffed from the exertion. A glance at the clock told them that they had stayed for longer than they ought to be, “I guess we should head home. Don’t you third-years have a load of exams to prepare for?”

“Shhhh… Ignorance is bliss.”

“Hey, if you fail to graduate, we will have you for another year, so,” Yahaba smirked.

“Now, can’t let you hide behind my wings forever,” Oikawa sing-songed, letting out a laugh, “Time for all of you to grow up and spread your wings, kiddos.”

“I know, I know.” Yahaba sighed, pulling the empty volleyball cart behind him to the other side of the court, and Oikawa followed him. “I just… well, I don’t know if we could… go on, I guess, without you guys.”

“Is that so?” He hummed, before gently kicking over some stray volleyball toward where his underclassman was kneeling to collect the balls, “Is that why you have been staying late, doing jump serves, no less?”

Yahaba sighed and opted to throw the balls back into their rightful place, instead. For a moment, Oikawa thought that was the end of the conversation; he walked toward the other side of the court for the group of balls that cluttered there — Yahaba favored the left side for his serves, it seemed — before the silence finally gave in, “Yeah. I’m doing everything I could to improve, you know. Being in your shadow… made me more than a little bit complacent, I think, at least up until Spring High.”

“But, did you know,” Oikawa kicked the ball over, and briefly considered what would happen if he was into soccer, instead, “a team with six players who are stronger, are the stronger one. The others ought to put in the work, too, and it is your job to make sure that that happens, as a captain.”

“They do! Kentarou always stayed with me, it was just today that he needed to leave a little bit earlier…”

Oikawa hummed, “It didn’t seem like no one slacked off, either, when I was here.” He slightly regretted it, now, not being there with them when he still could, “And what was up with Mad Dog-chan? Is he having a Math exam or something?” 

Yahaba breathed out a laugh, “No, he is more than okay with Math. History though, that is a whole different story.”

“Ew, history. Ew, everything except English, actually.”

“And yet you chose Argentina. Where they speak Spanish.”

At that, both of them roared in laughter. In response, Oikawa just aimed a ball straight toward Yahaba, eliciting a startled yell from him. If it was not for the fact that they spent hard work collecting that mountain of balls, Yahaba would have thrown it back at his face, Oikawa was sure. 

He sure will miss this. Late nights at the court, when the smell of teenage sweats lingers, never quite faded even after weeks of breaks; the way the lights shrieked when turned on, the way the courts immediately became blindingly bright. He’d miss them, too, his team, the people he has met.

The people he would leave behind.

Even the theatre group.

Even _him_.

(Maybe he understood a little, the way that this fear and pain shine brighter than fleeting happiness.)

“You know, you don’t have to become another me in order to lead Seijou out of Miyagi.” Oikawa breathed, his sight briefly smudged by something like nostalgia and sentimentality; he picked up the last stray ball instead of kicking it. “We… we might need to change things up a little bit, now that we have more than just Shiratorizawa to worry about.”

Yahaba nodded solemnly, and gracefully caught the ball when Oikawa threw it. He didn’t say anything, just seemed to absorb the words and trying to find a way to fit it in his piece — a new Seijou without the instincts of Oikawa, the strength of Iwaizumi, the intimidation of Matsukawa and the reliability of Hanamaki — of a new Seijou.

Oikawa thought that, after all, volleyball and theatre are different. The lights might be blinding, the floor might be wooden, the people might be burning up by their passion, but at the end…

“After all, pretending isn’t our sport.”

He wondered, where’d Suga fit into his piece, then?

He wondered, where’d romance fit in?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how do yall feel about an epilogue? (chapter 5)


	4. that nightfall was drowned in starlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 「“You didn’t kiss me. I think you wanted to.”   
> Suga breathed, “And if I tell you right now that I didn’t want to, what would you do?”」
> 
> The finale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so everything comes to an end... thank you for hanging out with me lol!  
> i tried to space out the updates a little more but i was just so restless SDGKJSDHGKJH i really want yall to read the fic!!!

“Hello, Oikawa-san, right?” 

Oikawa was told that the make-ups would be on for the dress rehearsal — which, he might add, was a completely unnecessary decision, even if it was to “make sure that everyone is comfortable with going on stage with make-up and to approximate the timing for retouches in between scenes”—

In the end, maybe he just didn’t want to see Suga. Not yet. Not with the performance on the line. 

_(Not another Spring High.)_

“I’m... ah, uh... Azumane Asahi. You might or might not remember me from the volleyball tournament... What a coincidence, right?—“

It didn’t matter, in the end, because true to his wish, Suga wasn’t there.

“—I know that Suga usually worked with you, but he is busy today, so, I’m subbing in.”

He was right, Oikawa thought without much vindication, Suga didn’t need to touch him that much the other day.

———

“He seemed a little down, you know.”

Suga hummed, “Is he, now?”

“You sound a little down, too, as a matter of fact.”

“You suddenly grew a spine, Asahi.”

“I know what you are doing, and as your best friend, I won’t fall for it.”

“...”

“You guys should talk it out, you know.”

Suga sighed, his breath rustled the line, but it didn’t seem like he would ever answer. 

“Good luck with the Calculus test tomorrow, by the way. Even though you guys are barely done with chapter seven yesterday.”

“Since when did you become a smartass?” Suga huffed, “Get home safely, dork.”

“I will, big baby, and remember that you can’t escape him on Friday.”

“I know, sissy.”

———

Was there anything to discuss, he wondered?

Was there anything at all, if he already resigned himself for heartbreak?

———

Asahi, Oikawa recalled, was nothing but methodical and dutiful in his work. When the nervous-babbling of an introduction died out, so was the need for any frivolous conversation. Asahi only talked when he needed Oikawa to move his head or to close his eyes, but otherwise seemingly contented with the silence, softly humming his ways through the pale powder and rosy rouge. Oikawa liked it; it gave him the space to mull over his… thoughts. Thoughts that muddled his mind over, so much that he did not fidget at the true stranger: the silence that befell upon him.

He didn’t particularly have any feelings over it, occupied as his thoughts were, but he appreciated the space, then. 

Hence, he took a minute to realize why silence was so much a stranger, especially with Suga there. They didn’t talk this time, perhaps for the first time since before the production began. In his phone, stuffed somewhere in his bag, the last message received was three weeks old.

Suga was wearing glasses, that time, and the half-rimmed, thin plastic frame and the way the light bounced off its black paint were the only things Oikawa dared to focus on, scrutinizing and silently inquisitive, as if it had answers for the questions that seeded his lungs.

_How come you have never worn glasses in front of me before?_

_How long have you had it?_

_You know, your glasses are even thicker than mine._

_What are we?_

_Will you ever answer?_

He can’t ask, right now, but he wanted to. It was a strange craving that was stifled by fear, by the strange custom of human politeness — a screen of glass he can break, but know that he shouldn’t — like a kid afraid of asking their mother for candies in the grocery store. 

But they hurt his head and ache his heart, those urges, so he looked away from Suga, away from the stupidly beautiful glasses that suited him so much and the absence of his gaze, to Alexander Dusseau in the mirror. Thirty-three minutes left until the premiere, whispered the small clock in front of them. He was in his guard uniforms, linen in coarse crimson unsheathed from dying roses, golden buttons that were accented by the stiff navy collars, also lined in gold. There will be no wigs until the ballroom scene, for that he was a mere guard at a noble household. Oikawa took a deep breath — silently reciting the words that he ought to know by heart at this point — and trying to be Dusseau, whoever that was. A Dusseau that had yet to feel infatuated, that was surrounded by fear of Parisian mobs and resentment for the Second Estates; one that will soon be free of hatred and love.

“You’d be fine. You have been going at it for months, now.”

When he looked up, Suga was meeting his gaze, eyebrows raised the way he always did, pulling up a smirk that was both challenging and reassuring. Suga’s right-hand was steady on the brush, his left tapped on Oikawa’s clenched knuckles, and slowly, one deep breath after another, he began to relax…

All Oikawa could feel after that is the tickling of bristles on his face, gently sweeping on his cheeks, his forehead — the blithe pressure that was barely discernible — and grasp on it for his dear life, and try to ignore the memories of the same motions, one that felt a universe heavier than this. 

“We’re done.” Suga breathed, dusting off whatever powder that could have stuck onto his outfits, then stayed motionless at his side. 

“Thank you,” Oikawa whispered back, eyes stared straight into Suga’s honeyed gaze. He seemed tired, eyes dull and strained in a way too foreign to Oikawa. In return, there was only a 

jaded smile.

Twenty-four minutes left.

———

Nineteen minutes left.

“I just want to say, thank you for all of your hard work.” Sashihara smiled through her megaphone, “Now, there is nothing left but to do as you have always done. Let’s put those muscle memories to use!”

“Ready?” Haruna whispered next to him.

“A bit nervous, but as ready as I can ever be.” 

“The moment you walk out there, the lights will melt everything else away.”

“Easy for you to say, theatre nerd.”

Haruna slapped his arm through her lace gloves; quietly, they snickered.

Fourteen minutes left.

———

Five minutes left, approximately.

“And why is that, de Castries?” Mademoiselle de Villette insisted to a stern-faced de Castries. She picked up the teacup, its content lukewarm — Oikawa saw someone brew it some ten minutes ago, backstage — and continued to stare at the poor guard.

“He is assigned to be your personal guard until your journey to the North.” 

“A bit obsolete, won’t you say? What is the need?” 

“The Duke’s heart will be eased in your safety.”

“Very well. Summon him hither.”

“Yes, Mademoiselle.”

de Castries exited the stage, calm and square-footed like the senior guard that he was. They exchanged a nod when he finally ducked behind the wing, then stood side-by-side with Dusseau.

“There, you saw how much Father fret over the frivolous affairs of the capital.” de Villette sighed, took a sip of her tea and showed no indication of its quality, and engaged Madame du Blois in talk.

“Ah, all worries of a father, Louise.” du Blois smiled at her friend’s annoyance, “The separation must cause him much anxieties; so did mine, dear, as close to home as I am.”

“A new guard seems nonetheless excessive, won’t you say.”

“Yes, I say so. But whatever eases the Duke’s old heart.” 

That was the cue.

_There is always that sacred feeling,_

_the first time you ever performed in front of an audience._

“Alexander Dusseau, my lady,” the young guard bowed, left arm crossing behind his back, right hand rested upon his chest. “I am honored to serve the Duke and his estates.”

_It’s frightening, supposedly._

_You feel all eyes focused on you._

_Every move is either a hit or a miss._

“Of course, the Duke and his estates.” de Villette sighed, exaggerated the gesture was, as though the world could never understand her woe. Her back was as straight as a rod, and little else moved beside her facial expression, chained as they were in high-society indolence, “Never a thought for the Duchess and the ladies. And you, dear Amelie, wondered why I would depart this hinterland.”

_The quality of the play, the efforts that you put in from the very first rehearsal to then,_

_all coalesced into those footsteps._

“I meant no offense, Mademoiselle, the words are merely procedural.” He glanced up without meeting her eyes, his body still locked in the bow. 

_And the lights are blinding._

_In front of you, there is light. Behind you, on top of you, sometimes even under you, there is light_.

“As if it would improve anything, honored guards.” de Villette giggled, then took another small sip of the tepid tea, “Honored guards, all swords and words, no senses found!”

_It felt like your gravity was attracting all that light,_

_and at the same time, you felt the light eating into you._

“Shall it be, that they are all squirrelly.” du Blois chimed, her sing-song tone bright and rendered any further giggling excessive, “Square and stout, but savvy? Not really.”

_It’s scary, it’s anxious, but it’s... exhilarating._

_The way you are the star of the world, the way that light and everything that comes with the stage breathes into you some kind of satisfaction you have never felt before…_

“May that it be,” Dusseau smirked, damning the customs that might challenge him, then lifted his feet and straightened, “that little squirrel, so shrewd and mellow, steal away your sack, while you’re so lively in talk.”

_It changed you, that very first moment._

He understood it, somehow.

———

Intermission is an extremely misleading word, Suga decided. It’s not a “break” nor a “pause”, just the translation of one chaos to another, the frenzy of the stage bled into the wings almost as soon as the curtain hid the actors away from view. They rushed in, dresses and tea be damned, and only then was he reminded of why they needed so many crew members — twenty minutes allotted were almost not enough for the stage to be cleared and re-arranged, actors to be touched up, outfits to be changed and Heaven forbid if there were any costume errors — no one was free from the whirlwind of intermission.

“Oikawa, come over here!” If he raised his voice, just blame it on the adrenaline, “Let me see how the make-up is holding up!”

The actor in question shrieked a little, startled as he was when he barely stepped backstage. But as if attuned to Suga’s voice, he rushed over, and Suga saw the sweats that trailed along his temple and the exultant gleam in his eyes— as if the stage light has embroidered itself there for an eternity. As he dabbed away the sweat from Oikawa’s face, he could feel his eyes — all of its luminescence and constellations — embedded themselves upon him, but it was not Suga that they saw, he believed. Rather, resided in their depth is the blinding brilliance of theatre and the adrenaline that reminded him so much of another sport.

Despite the heat onstage, Oikawa’s face needed not many adjustments — just more embellishments and bolder colors for the ballroom scene — before he was whisked away to the changing room.

After Oikawa, then came de Noailles, de Castries, some other nobles, and then de Villette and du Blois, right after they exited the changing room.

The opening choreography will be a highlight, Suga knew that much, from how intense the practices were and how much Aya and Haruna complained about it. The actors will stream out from the two wings; on their cuing beat, they would dance out from the curtain in perfect coquettish unison, all twirls and leaps curved toward the middle of the stage. Then, just a few metres behind the centre, they fall hand-in-hand, occasioning a gentle waltz to one side, letting the next couple take the spotlight. de Taillefer will enter thirdly, and the fifth to de Villette — both sharing the center of the circle, once the introductory movements are over — and lastly, entered du Blois and her companion.

It will be like a flower, the girls explained to him, that bloomed step-by-step. A flower that moves and flits — the couples will dance around in a circle, so that everyone can be seen by the audience at the forefront — before it withers and let the pistil to be seen. 

“Having fun, de Villette?” Suga grinned, touching up her rouge.

“Very much so,” she hummed, not quite out-of-character despite being off-stage, “I am looking forward to the ball.”

“The introductory dance sounds nice. Wish I could see it from the audience view, though, or at least from the top.”

“Worry not, the team surely will get it on tape.” 

“Right, right, they will.” Suga laughed, dabbing the final touch of pink upon her cheeks, “Just as pretty as you are now, de Villette.”

de Villette huffed, “Thanks. Anyway, you should beware of Madame du Blois… or, ah, should I say, of Aya-chan.”

Suga hummed, not quite knowing what that meant, and quite did not want to acknowledge the possibility.

Three minutes remained.

———

Haruna’s warnings are never undue, Suga reminded himself.

“Have you noticed anything different?” Aya whispered, heeding forward, as the third couple floundered their ways onstage. He, like the other backstage crews, was there to watch.

“About what?”

“About who, really."

Suga sighed, “Alright, about who?”

“Oikawa.” Not Dusseau, not de Taillefer. _Oikawa Tooru_. 

“What about him?”

“I think you noticed.” Aya said, looking straight ahead, “The way you paused... the way you two stared at each other… I don’t think you could have missed it.”

He sucked in a deep breath but otherwise did not answer. The line has moved up now, and so were he and Aya — if he didn’t move, she would have dragged him on nonetheless — soon enough, it will be her turn. She willingly took on his silence as an answer.

“Tooru-kun… is transformed now. Don’t let yourself be the one who is caged, Kou-chan.” Aya looked at him, at last, and gave him a small smile. The edged humor in her eyes glinted softly, Suga mused, washed over like the moonlight. A shallow bow was all he got as an explanation, before Madame du Blois waltzed away, into the caress of starlight.

———

“...I’ve heard that they called this area the Garden of Farewell.”

“What an idiotic epithet, really, calling a clearing as wide as this a mere garden.”

Suga didn’t know what compelled him to stay behind. The ball has ceded. The herd of noblemen and tech crew had retired to the backstage, watching the play from a proper screen, hooked up to one of the main cameras. Only he remained here — hiding behind the thick curtain, its heavy lint digging into his fingernails — rooted by Aya’s words at first, but then captured by the scene that was unfolding. 

Dusseau and de Villette were facing the audience. Suga took a moment to appreciate the incredible staging: the waning glittery moon; the line of rocks and stones that border the water, which stretched from the middle and flooded over the wing across, a waterfall of glistering plastic streamed down the stage; the scattering columnar trees of unknown names — and the thin veil of moonlight that caress the land, ubiquitous and nebulous. de Villette carefully rested upon a large boulder by the edge of the water, watching the stillness of the world; Dusseau mulled toward the deep nothingness of the left-wing.

“Isn’t that what poetry ought to do? Cover this world with a little bit of flair? Of freedom?”

Out of a corner of his reverie, the show continued.

“I cannot avoid this, if that is what you are insinuating, Monsieur. More than one person is dependent upon this union.” de Villette exhaled; away was the traitorous thought and the ataraxia that doused her lungs. She looked back — gaze colliding with Dusseau’s own.

“Very well. I… somewhere in me… is glad that such is your choice.”

“And what will be of you?”

“Paris. If you cannot avoid yours, neither can I, mine.” Dusseau looked away, then. Determined of his resolve and resigned of his fate. The will of the world deceives: it lines up, but also doesn’t. It forces one to choose, then removes a choice.

de Villette turned away, stiffened. “Perhaps they are right. There is a garden beneath this wide berth.” Her words greedily swallowed the air in its path, “Full of regrets and farewell…”

“What is there to regret, mademoiselle?”

“The what-could-have-been...” de Villette pronounced. The tension in her shoulder exhaled away with her breath, and a newfound determination filled its hollow. 

“We knew, and yet we did nothing out of it.”

de Villette rose, “But isn’t it important, nonetheless, that it once existed?” The stiffness of nobility had long melted, baring out to the moonlight the zeal of a fleeting affair, like a hearth that burned within the girl’s shaking breaths, “Doesn’t it deserve acknowledgment… deserve the right to be mourned and regretted, just by the virtue of its birth?”

Dusseau turned, beckoned by her voice—

—and one Oikawa Tooru locked eyes with one Sugawara Koushi—

—but then, it wasn’t the time for them.

_(Will there ever be?)_

—and cradled her anguish with his eyes, her cheeks on his palm, “Pieces of you will be with me, Paris or beyond.” He breathed as if it burned, “Pieces of… of this time. All of it. They will be seeds that bloom in me a garden.”

Her shaking hand came to rest upon his, its timid fingers latched onto his ruing ones, “And may some be sunflowers, to lead you toward the light.”

Later, when the present had forever vanished, and its corpse painted on a videotape, they would have said that the moment only lasted for a blink of an eye. That all Alexander Dusseau could see is Louise de Villette, her soft eyes that shone resolution, affliction, and jubilation all at once. That there was love. That there was recognition for it and regret of such knowledge arrived too late. That there was, after all, a moment of celebration: a moment where love prevailed, for a second out of the hours that it had been suppressed. That despite all, there was love, and there will be love. Ephemeral and fragile as it might be. Then, as quick as it comes, there was grief, again. For what could have been, had time permitted, had they been different people. That they had made a decision: not to honor this love by succumbing to its lure, but by remembering it.

Some of that might be true. Some, might not.

Later — perhaps five, ten, fifteen, twenty years later — when the seconds had stretched thin like a stroke of cloud, when the memories have sailed the wind of time into perpetuity, Oikawa Tooru would remember a silver akin of the moon. He would remember a brown not unlike honey that drenched in fluorescence light. He would remember something: a sentiment that was so fleeting he could not get a hold of it, let alone to examine. But he would remember its symptoms: wide brown eyes, the silhouette of a glittery moon, feeling breathless and reckless, the fear of time passing by and missing them entirely — of a masquerade in which time had forsaken only them two, a dancer and an onlooker — and the mourning of a thing that was not supposed to live.

He would remember looking at Sugawara Koushi without ever seeing him. Only the lies of sentimentality will fill in the gaps at later dates.

_(Were you looking, too?)_

“And may some be tea roses.”

_To remember you by, one eternity after another._

———

He was looking, of course.

 _Maybe there will be_ , Suga whispered behind the curtain, like a ghost blessed by the moon, _maybe._

_If we let it to bloom._

———

“... And now, of course, give it up to the entire team!” Yoshida hollered, not at all caring that they were in public.

And the public meant a nearly deserted 24/7 fast-food chain a few blocks away from Seijou, filled to the brim with exhausted but elated theatre kids and not much else. Shimazaki explained that this was their designated place to hang out after a show, if not for convenience, then for the sake of tradition. The worker seemed familiar enough — though still with the typical too-done-for-your-bullshit attitude — for them to move the tables around without asking. They ended up invading the entire half-booth section, sitting haphazardly around the row of square tables. Haruna, as a lead, sat at the front of their feast; Oikawa was to her left, and her right, Aya, then Suga. Sitting next to Oikawa was Yagata, the actor that portrayed Phillippe de Castries. On the opposite side of the long table was Sashihara at the center; Yoshida and Yuri, the Club President and Vice-President, on her right; Miyawaki and Tashima, the co-writers, on her left. 

They cheered at the peroration of the speech, though Oikawa was not sure how much of it is genuine hail for the oration or the fact that it has ended and they were free to eat (he was sure that Aya and Suga sneaked away some fries in the middle of the speech, though). Conversations erupted, the little bubbles of voices commingled into a late cacophony of early summer. Yuri had slipped away from the other side at one point, now wedged between Haruna and Aya, the three of them lost in laughter. Suga chimed in now-and-then between bites of food — a scarily spiced sandwich that was doused in hellfire and more than just a little extra hot sauce — that was more than enough of an excuse to remain silent.

Not that Oikawa was also doing the same thing. Nope. Of course not.

Their bubble of silence was small enough, obscured enough, and light enough to blend besides the other conversations, like the spare spaces between circles. There was no need to talk, not when their main agenda was to eat, which, seemingly, only the two had adhered to; but, he needed to know. More importantly, they needed to talk.

21:42

To Suga-chan?: what are you even eating?

From Suga-chan?: good convo starter, monsieur

From Suga-chan?: they call it the “ultimate tear-minator chicken sandwich” but i ordered it with extra hot sauce

From Suga-chan?: i gotta say, not too bad. 

From Suga-chan?: went a bit light with the extra hot sauce tho, but i guess this is what we get in this economy.

To Suga-chan?: ew. disgusting. 

To Suga-chan?: anyway, when is this gonna end? i want to talk to you, in person of course, after this.

From Suga-chan?: ask haruna

From Suga-chan?: she knows these kind of stuff

From Suga-chan?: plus unlike us

From Suga-chan?: she had been at seijou parties before. and i said all parties, not just theatre one.

To Suga-chan?: you just cant stop being mean, can you

21:48

To Haruru: when is this thing gonna end?

From Haruru: tired of us already?

From Haruru: usually we break off in 10 more minutes, but you can always linger arounds after. its not exactly a formal gathering.

To Haruru: okie thanks :D

From Haruru: must get to the “talk” with kou-chan, i assume? ;)

To Haruru: shut >:( since when did you use emoji?

From Haruru: since Aya taught me. i only employ them when the occasion necessitates ;)

To Haruru: now that the premiere is over, are you and the girls gossiping about us?

From Haruru: i will let Aya field this question.

From Haruru: aya here! ;>

From Haruru: the short answer is, yes. but the longer and more detailed answer is also more complicated. see,... 

———

“So, Aya and Haruna and Yuri…”

“Are a thing? Yes, they are.”

Oikawa hummed and kept walking.

The moment the clock had struck ten, Yui had heroically prevented another spiel from Yoshida with a crisp sentence announcing the end of the party — and a wink at Oikawa, what the hell — thus permitted several to leave without falling asleep to another speech, including himself. Oikawa departed first, meeting Suga’s eyes as the other boy fiddled with an empty cup, and waited outside. Five minutes later, they decided to walk together to the bus station in the next street. 

“I have the feeling that you don’t want to talk to me about them, though.”

“Yeah, I don’t.” Their footsteps were steady beside each other, in the well-lit street that was nearly deserted. Not many would frequent a school zone at such an hour. 

“So,” Suga shrugged, “what’s going on?”

“I should be the one to ask that question, Suga.”

Suga sighed, “Nothing, Oikawa. Had a couple of crazy months, you know how college prep courses can get.”

“Were you also looking? During the performance.” Oikawa knew he was being pushy, but he would much rather Suga get to grips with the topic. No time better than the present, right?

“Yes, I saw the entire thing from the backstage, male lead.”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“If I said yes, where do we go from there?”

Oikawa exhaled, “Be clear and honest to each other, perhaps. I have another question, though, if it’s alright to you.”

“You didn’t ask the first time.” 

“Are we done pretending?” Oikawa breathed, gracefully swiveled in front of Suga, meeting eye-to-eye, “You didn’t answer, the first time I asked.”

Suga exhaled, looking at somewhere between Oikawa’s temple and the murky sky above, “Maybe, now that it’s all over.” 

“What stopped you? That time.” _What stopped you from going forward?_

“You act as if you didn’t stop yourself short.”

“You didn’t kiss me. I think you wanted to.” 

Suga breathed, “And if I tell you right now that I didn’t want to, what would you do?”

“Apologize for the assumption,” _the accusation,_ he shrugged, “then explains that had you not wanted to kiss me, you probably would have no problem applying the lipsticks after that to let me go on stage. And won’t use a brush on it tonight.”

“Very presumptuous of you, Northern star.”

“Don’t lie, did you want to?”

Suga looked away, “Yeah, I guess I wanted to.”

Suga seemed tired, but whatever bravado Oikawa swallowed on the stage had rendered him unstoppable — and unwilling — and the quiet resignation was only a fallen barricade. Before this ecstasy waned, he needed an answer. _They_ needed an answer. 

So maybe he was being a little bit bumptious, even more than usual.

“Then why didn’t you?”

“If you do everything as your impulses command, you would live a disappointing life, Oikawa.” Suga’s voice was small, so small that it was almost an exhale, but so grating — like thorned vines that were scratched its way out of his throat — that the force of it made Oikawa wince.

“Then what consequences did you try to avoid?”

“I don’t know, Oikawa?” Suga finally snapped, “Maybe falling in love with you? Maybe accidentally got you to kiss me back?” — _oh heaven, what would he even do if Suga started crying_ — “Maybe start a relationship that I know wouldn’t last? Maybe become another tangle for you to shrug off once you cross the ocean? I don’t know, Tooru, tell me!”

“Suga…”

“I told myself that I won’t let it happen. I told myself that it’s fine if this is just going to be… going to be one of those things that, later, I would have time to regret that I didn’t pursue…” Suga sobbed, and the force of it plummeted his cheeks onto his open palm, “I never anticipated this, anyway. I never anticipated falling in love in the goddamn last months of high school, anyway, when there was still so much going on. So it was fine that it would never happen, right? It’s gonna hurt, believe me, but I was… I was prepared, did my best to, to let this be just a ‘what could have been’...

“And now you asked me,” Suga finally looked up, and his smile was awfully aslant, like a clumsily placed sticker, “and now that all of it is breathed into existence, I don’t think I’d get anything back but heartbreak, am I?”

When Suga dropped that horrible smile, all Tooru could hear was the incessant buzzing of the streetlight above, the other boy’s heaving breaths, his own silence, and the lithe breeze of early spring, the kind that is supposed to be consoling, but now just tasted like bitter coffee. In front of him, Suga looked away from his eyes, and exasperatedly wiped away his own tears. Oikawa didn’t know what to do, and the silence scrambled his thoughts instead of organizing it into something proper, something comprehensible—

“You are scared, aren’t you? I get it…” Oikawa suddenly heard himself whisper, “I was scared when I first tried out for this audition. I didn’t seek it out; Iwa-chan asked me to. I was scared at the first table read. The first rehearsal. The first measuring session. The first time Haruna yelled at me and told me all that I lacked…

“But guess what,” He stepped closer toward Suga, looking at him but not seeing him at all, “even though I probably would never act again in my entire life, I’m glad that I joined this little thing! Because I met you. And Haruna, and Aya, and Yuri, and everyone else.

“I… I don’t know what to do about your fears. Maybe they are right, maybe they are not, the same way I thought that things might be if I dropped out. But I didn’t, and something… else happened. Gah! I don’t know how to say anything but…” Gripping his own hair in frustration, Oikawa kept on, determined to get the words out, no matter how stupid and naive they were. He just needed _him_ to know.

“But, if theatre taught me anything, it’s that you need to live in the moment. Let that light washes on you! Take things one step at a time, and, like Iwa-chan told me, enjoy things for the merit of it, no matter how dumb or useless or utterly unrelated to the future it might be. So, here I am, ranting and babbling at the guy that a month ago, I thought he was too gorgeous and good to ever be attracted to me. And then he almost kissed me, or at least I assumed so, and then ghosted me for three weeks—”

“Are you really mad about that?”

“That’s beside the point! But, the thing is… I want to forget the future, just a little. Forget all about volleyball and how sucky competitions are. Forget all about San Juan and Argentina and Spanish and whatever! Things will figure itself out! But, as Oikawa Tooru, high school student, I just want to kiss Sugawara Koushi, fellow high school student, either now, or later, maybe after our first date, I don’t know…”

“You are that excited to kiss me?”

“The first boy I will ever kiss! Anyway, the point is…”

“You want to do it right now?”

“Huh?”

“First date or whatever can be later. Just… live in the moment, right?” When Oikawa finally looked up, there Suga was, with his seraphic browns rimmed by a flushing red and a smile soft like melted marshmallow, adoringly gazing at him. 

All Oikawa Tooru can see, with his eyes closed, is the mirage of streetlight, deserted streets behind a bus stop, and Sugawara Koushi kissing him, hands nested in his.

23:45

To Kou-chan <3: one last question before we go to sleep. can i change your contact name on my phone to “kou-chan”? 

From Kou-chan <3: 3000yen that you already did

To Kou-chan <3: i will pay for the ice cream on our first date ;D

——

_AOBA JOHSAI AND KARASUNO HIGH’S THEATRE PRODUCTION EARNED ACCLAIMS FROM THE NATIONAL HIGH SCHOOL THEATRE COMMITTEE_

_The Aoba Johsai High and Karasuno High School’s original entry to the National High School Theatre Competition has earned high accolades from the competition, one of the largest victories of Miyagi high school theatre in recent years..._

_… Titled “The Garden of Farewell”, the story written by Tashima Miru and Miyawaki Maki from Karasuno High, surrounded the fleeting romance of Alexander Dusseau and (Mlle.) Louise de Villette, set on the eve of the French Revolution…_

_… “It was truly an interesting experience,” commented Shimazaki Haruna, who played the role of Louise de Villette, “our male lead was a complete novice at the beginning of the play, but he was an incredible learner and actor. When the performance began, he was nothing short of experienced and extraordinary…”_

_… For his part, Oikawa Tooru expressed, “Theatre was definitely new to me, for sure, and thanks to everyone that I was able to carry out my role successfully…”_

_… Several members of the cast had been accepted to prestigious performance art schools in Miyagi and beyond, and Oikawa Tooru will pursue his passion for volleyball…_

_… The performance earned great praise from the judges, one of whom commented, “The acting was excellent, especially when one takes into consideration their age group. Only upon extreme scrutiny did we recognize that not everyone is a professional. The staging and music were remarkable, and the ballroom dance was nothing short of marvelous…”_

_… “A brave choice, choosing a historical French setting with foreign names…”_

_… The production was a joint-effort between Karasuno and Aoba Johsai, the former in charge of mainly behind-the-scenes businesses that prepared for an excellent production, and the latter, the majority of the cast that breathed life into the play…_

_… Their production has earned the highest honor from the committee: almost total domination of the categories that earned them the Sweepstake Award, and they will be offered a spot to perform at the High School Theatre Conference in July…_

———

At the edge of that summer, Oikawa Tooru entered a sparse apartment in San Juan, Argentina, with nothing more than one suitcase and one gym bag. The rest will come later if he makes it to the team. 

At the edge of that summer, the first thing Oikawa Tooru would put on the barren shelf in his bedroom, to officially make it his own, was a photograph encased in a wooden frame painted gold. It contained spring — gentle cherry snowstorm and honeyed lightning — and a morning moon. All silver hair and wild grin, his eyes closed in bliss. Beside him, Oikawa Tooru was smiling, too, in that same liberated craze of becoming an adult.

At the edge of that summer, Sugawara Koushi and Oikawa Tooru turned eighteen, and between them lived memories of blue afternoons, blinding light, a tentative touch on the lips, seconds that stretched into a millennium, buzzing streetlights, a spring danced into summer and too many kisses to count.

At the edge of that summer, the first person that Oikawa Tooru texted at a foreign land was his boyfriend.

21:35PM

To Kou-chan <3: is it too late for me to start learning spanish?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> scream at my twitter <3 @39maow

**Author's Note:**

> i put so much easter eggs in here that i cant remember which one is and which one isnt.  
> ALSO please be assured that this fic is COMPLETED!! im just in the process of editing it LMAOOOO.


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